


Start With a Name

by cumberbellins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Castiel, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Everyone Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Homeless Dean, John Winchester's Bad Parenting, Law Student Sam, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Minor Castiel/Meg Masters, Model Dean, Money, Tattoo Artist Meg Masters, Virgin Castiel, dean struggling with bisexuality, he's dead though, i mean like heavy flirting, idk how to tag things i'm sorry, idk where this is going tbh, sam and cas are neighboors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 72,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1714823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberbellins/pseuds/cumberbellins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up in a stranger's living room with a blue eyed man staring down at you isn't the most pleasant experience ever. Dean Winchester can tell you that. Another thing Dean Winchester can tell you is that whenever you have to break into your brother's apartment, you should make sure that you got the right window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There are worst things to wake up to.

It was almost 2am, and starting to get freaking cold. Reluctantly, Dean stepped out of the warmth of his car anyway, turning his leather collar up to protect his throat from the wind.

Sam's apartment was on the second floor, third window to the left. Dean had counted.

Climbing his way up to the second balcony was the easy part: he had learnt how to escape and clamber back into his room when he was fourteen and secretly hanging out with the neighboors' son at night, so the building in which Sam lived and the tall trees that surrounded it almost made it too easy. He didn't take a flashlight, half because he needed both his hands already, half because he was a freaking Winchester and Winchesters do not have a problem with obscurity.

The difficult part was breaking in without actually _breaking_ in. More like _quielty opening the window without causing any damage_ in. He was used to smashing glass with his elbow, or shooting at locks when he didn't feel like axing his way through a door, but discretion? That was a foreign concept, and quite a ridiculous one too. So when he put his hand on the pane to steady himself while kneeling down to take a better look at the mechanism of the handle, only to realize the window was open when he felt his weight dragging him inside the room, he silently thanked the kid for making it so easy for him, using his voice to curse at the loss of his balance.

He got inside, trying his best not to bump into any of the furniture in the complete darkness, and closed the window behind himself. It was April and Sam was a crazy bitch for opening it in the first place.

It took a full minute for his eyes to adapt and start making out the shapes that were surrounding him, during which he remained perfectly still, a statue in the room. He then rejoiced in seeing an empty and comfortable-enough looking couch, and sprawled down on it. He didn't know if Sam was asleep or out, but he didn't really care. It was almost 2am, he had been driving for five hundred miles straight, and he needed four goddamn hours.

  
  


________________________________________

  
  


  
  


His life smelled of leather and coffee when he woke up, and something else underneath that. Something... no, he couldn't place it. Coffee was good news though. Coffee meant Sam was awake and that meant pancakes and eggs and bacon and bread with butter and no jam for breakfast. Dean couldn't find the familiar smell of frying sausage but he didn't need to to know that they were there, getting ready to be devoured. Breakfast at Sam's was the best.

It wasn't like Dean was starving. His meals didn't come in what you would call a regular fashion, but his digestive system could stomach it by now. But still, the quality and quantity of food he could afford with the occasional fifty bucks he made out of repairing a car here and fixing a sink there made Sam's cooking sweet dreams material.

He grunted and rubbed his face against the shirt he had transformed into a pillow, then with the heels of hands while he sat up, and opened his eyes.

The pair of legs standing before him made him jump. Chances were he'd cursed too, but his consciousness could not certify it as it had been attempting to flee when his body could not. The blood trying to pound out of his arteries blinded and deafened him for what the part of him that had actually had a chance to wake up identified as a short moment. He felt his vocal chords vibrating. Swearing again, he knew it. The white spots in his vision started to fade and once again legs appeared in front of him, covered in black trousers he didn't recognize as part of Sam's wardrobe. But then a man was allowed to get some new clothes when he outgrew his old ones, and Sam eventually outgrew everything.

No, the trousers were not what made him twig. It was the coat. A beige trenchcoat that fell below the uniditified male person's knees. Definitely not Sam. He looked up apprehensively to meet with a face that not only wasn't his brother's but wasn't even one he recognized. Since when did Sam have creepy friends who dressed like Columbo and got off on watching people sleep?

“Who the hell are you?” Dean somewhat shouted, trying to hide the fact that he was hyperventilating.

The stranger frowned with one eyebrow and cocked the other, arms dangling at his sides. “I feel like I'm the one who should be asking that.”

“What?”

And then Dean saw the painting hung upon the white wall behind the man. _Oh._ So either Sam had decided to repaint the red wall and had recently purchased something that looked like abstract art, or...

“Where am I?” he asked, looking up at the man with tired eyes. He didn't want it to seem like he was used to that kind of situation, but in a way, he was. He got the wrong window. Of course he did. Dean was just hoping he hadn't been exhausted enough to get the wrong building too.

“You're in my apartment. Though I don't know why.”

The guy didn't sound too freaked out about it. Dean knew he would have had a gun pointed at the intruder's head in the _second_ he noticed him, but the weird-looking twenty five-ish dark-haired man with blue eyes gazing down at him almost sounded bored with it. How many times had he woken up to discover that someone had creeped up inside his living room?

“Oh. Um – ” Dean massaged his eyes with the tips of his fingers in an attempt to relax and find the appropriate thing to say. “This is embarrassing.” He saw the guy raise his eyebrows at him, clearly expecting some more than owed explanation. “I don't know what to say.” He didn't. _Sorry I broke inside the wrong apartment, I was probably aiming for the one next door, glad you didn't hit me with a wooden bat though, bye now._ Maybe not.

“I hear most people in this situation start with a name.”

 _Most people in this situation_? A small smile was tugging at the guy's lips, and Dean couldn't decide if he was amused by his own words or the utter confusion of the man he'd found sleeping on his couch, clutching a plaid shirt tightly, his hair an army of spikes in the morning.

“Um, yeah, okay. I'm Dean.”

“Hello Dean. I'm Castiel.”

The guy didn't extend his hand at Dean nor offered him any coffee. Instead he just stood there, smiling contentedly in his trenchcoat and blue tie.

Dean wondered what time it was. By the look of his clothes, Castiel (and by the way what kind of name was that?) was some kind of cheap accountant who had been about to leave. These jobs came with fixed hours and a boss whose main purpose in life was to know how late you were down to the second and to remind you of it ever ten minutes. And yet here he was, standing in front of Dean like he could and would do just that all day. Maybe he had just gotten home for lunch, but then it was impossible to cross the living room without noticing a six foot tall, sleeping, unexpected guest on the sofa, which meant the man would have gone to work and consciously left Dean to sleep alone in the apartment, and somehow that was even more disturbing than thinking he had chosen to be late just to stare at Dean for a little longer.

“Well... sorry, I guess. It was never my intention to – ”

“To climb up to the second floor, penetrate my home in the middle of the night and fall asleep on my sofa?” Castiel was still grining and his eyebrows slightly raised in an incredulous manner.

Dean huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I suppose that sums it up.”

There was a short silence before Castiel spoke again, and Dean wondered if there was any way he could get some of that coffee he had been fantisizing about.

“So what _was_ your intention?”

Dean ran his hand through his hair and rubbed at the nape of his neck. Explaining that one was probably a bad idea. “It's going to sound really weird, but I was actually aiming for my brother's apartment,” he offered with his honest and as harmless as he could manage eyes on the man in front of him. “Guess he lives right next to you.”

“Is it the pianist or the really tall one?”

Dean chuckled again. “I usually get 'gigantic', but yeah, that's him.”

Castiel nodded. He didn't have any questions left.

Dean contemplated looking around himself, but he hadn't exactly been invited in and he felt like it woud be an invasion of privacy. He hated the kind of people who allowed themselves to cross these lines, so he got his curiosity under control and got up from the couch. “I should probably leave now.”

For a fraction of a second he saw a look creep on Castiel's face, but it was gone too fast for Dean to analyse it before his expression resumed to its initial state of semi-amusement. “Of course. This way.”

He led Dean to the hall, and was about to shut his door when Dean interjected. “Hey hum, thanks, by the way. I know you didn't willingly invite me in, but you know. You could have called the police or something.”

Castiel smiled, “Please, there are worst things to wake up to. Have a good day.”

The door was closed.

Dean remained motionless, facing the tatty wood of the door, trying to make sense of what he'd just heard other than the obvious meaning. He then realized he was awkwardly standing still in the middle of a corridor and he started moving. That guy had a weird sense of humor.

He knocked on Sammy's door and heard the man yell. “Coming!”

It opened a minute later, and Sammy's face lit up with surprise.

Immediately Dean was engulfed into a tight hug. “Dean.”

“Hey Sammy.” Dean let go of his brother to pat him on the shoulder.

Both the Winchesters were content in simply smiling at eachother until Sam frowned. “When did you start using doors?”

  
  


________________________________________

  
  


  
  


Thirty minutes, one gospel worthy breakfast and three cups of coffee later, Sam knew all about Dean's adventure.

“Your neighboor is weird,” Dean concluded.

Sam threw a bitchface at his brother. “Dean. You climbed up to his floor at 2am, broke in through his window, fell asleep on his couch, and asked him who he was when you woke up. You don't get to call him weird.”

Sam had a point, of course. Anyone in Castiel's situation would have been at least baffled and their behavior would have been affected. The thing was: fear, anger, panic, Dean would have understood. Hell, chances were if the circumstances had been reversed he would have shot the sleeping stranger first and asked questions later. But Castiel, he hadn't panicked. He'd watched Dean sleep until he'd woken up and then he had initiated a calm conversation. And that was off-putting.

“Which one was it?” Sam asked.

“Hmm?”

“Was it the pianist, the guy with all the tattoos or the other one?”

Dean frowned. “Uh, it wasn't the pianist. He thought you might be. And I don't think he had any tattoos but then he was wearing a trenchcoat so there wasn't much I could see.”

Sam nodded in sign of understanding. “That was probably Cas.”

“Yeah!” Dean exclaimed. “Castiel,” he said lower. “What is that name about?”

Sam shrugged and got up to start taking the dishes to the kitchen. “I don't know,” he told Dean from there. “He's pretty silent, I've only talked to him once but he seems nice.” He made it back from the kitchen and sat down again, an envelope in his right hand. “Charlie tried to get some information but I think she went too strong on him and he freaked out.”

Dean grinned. He remembered the first time he'd met his brother's roommate. Sam had told him she was a genius around computers, so Dean had expected a chick with round glasses and social issues, basically anything but the red-haired extrovert and dynamic kid who'd punched his brother in the shoulder when he'd introduced her as 'the geeky tyran'. Charlie was amazing. And a lesbian, which Sam had warned him about before introducing them to eachother, mainly because he knew Dean would either tease him about living with a chick, or try something with her himself.

“Yeah, her enthusiasm can be... _overwhelming_ for some people. Where is she anyway?”

“Harry Potter convention with Jo.”

Dean sighed sarcastically. “Sam, sometimes I wonder how it's possible that there are so many women in your life and the only ones you're spending your nights with are either gay or Margaret Thatcher.”

Sam chuckled and looked embarrassed, to Dean's pleasure, for five seconds. “Yeah well, if I don't study you won't have an apartment to break in.” That froze Dean's grin instantly. Sam put the envelope he'd been holding on the table and pushed it towards his brother. “About that... There isn't much, but if you deal with it seriously it could last a few months.”

Dean frowned at him in confusion, then let his eyes fall on the envelope as realization struck him. “No.”

“Dean.”

“Sammy, no. I'm not taking your money.”

The younger Winchester's gaze fell to the floor. “It's no problem you know. I mean I've got my job at the Roadhouse and Charlie has started taking advantage of her computer skills, we can afford it.”

This happened every year. Dean would visit Sam and tell him about how things were, and they weren't bad. Maybe he'd lost a few pounds but not enough to be concerned about it, and despite his brother's encouragements he'd never looked for a long-term job in a garage or anywhere else for that matter. But that was how things had always been and Dean didn't need or want them to change. Sam would try to shove some money into his pockets when he thought he wasn't looking and Dean would put it back in his wallet the night before he left. No matter how much he tried to convince his little brother that he would never accept a dollar from him, no matter how hard he pleaded or how loud he yelled, this stupid cycle would start over again every single time they met. Apparently this time Charlie had decided to join them into this dance too, and Dean wasn't sure whether it was because she was as naive as Sam or because she knew Dean wouldn't take the money anyway. He wasn't a fool, he knew that the only way two university students in an apartment could afford taking care of an adult with no diploma and no regular income was by timing their showers and starting a diet.

“Sam. It's no.”

  
  


________________________________________

  
  


  
  


Eventually, Sam had to leave to get to a lecture about the Criminal Code, and Dean didn't feel like staying alone in the tiny apartment with nothing to do, so he left with him.

“If last night's experience is anything to go by I'm guessing you've lost the keys I've given you?”

Dean offered his brother an innocent smile, but soon enough it fell to the floor. “Look, I lose things okay? You can't just expect me to hold on to that thing when it's so small and I use it once a year and even then I don't use it because it's no fun.”

Surprisingly, this plea didn't seem to convince Sam and the twenty year old rolled his eyes. “I'll just leave the window open, think you can get the right one this time?”

Dean winced. “Look at you, developing a sense of humor while no one was watching.”

Sam laughed. It was something Dean loved to see. Sam would throw his head back and, Dean argued, giggle like a girl, and it was heart-warming to know that the gigantic law student who thought he had the responsibility to take care of his homeless big brother could still chortle like the twelve year old Dean had raised.

Once he'd calmed down (quickly enough, _it wasn't_ that _funny, Dean_ ), Sammy spoke again. “I'm going out with friends tonight, so you might be home before me.”

They descended the stairs leading to the parking lot and Sam showed him the right window again just to make sure. He then spotted the black 67 chevy Impala and put his huge hand on its roof. “Hey there you, how are you doing?”

“She's resting,” Dean provided, getting close to his Baby and caressing her hood. “Long drive yesterday night.”

The smile that peeped out on Sam's face made it look like the corners of his mouth were trying to rip his face in two. “You two wanna drop me to college?”

“Baby what do you say?”

Sam properly laughed again.

“He doesn't understand us Baby,” Dean murmured to his car. “Relationships with women aren't his thing.”

In the end, Dean drove his brother to a big building covered in red bricks playing AC/DC's Back in Black loud enough for all the young people with their arms filled with books about the History of American Economy to swivel around and look at them with either happy or irritated eyes. Dean smiled at at least twenty girls and winked at two of them. “Oh man, I love college.”

Sam pointed his _seriously_ eyebrows at him.

“You know what I mean.”

“Uh huh.” Sammy nodded, leaving the car with a smug smile.

If he wanted to play it that way, Dean was prepared. He was a big brother. He switched the music off, and yelled at the top of his lungs. “I'll miss you babe, have a good day.” He was ruining his chances with all the girls who'd heard him and were now eyeing Sam with a surprised glare, but it was worth it. He waved at a mortified-looking brother, and turned the music back on. 


	2. Is blue a recurrent theme?

 “Well... Life on the road, it's not easy you know. I mean, travelling all the time, no attachments... it's complete freedom, but it can get... pretty lonely. Nights spent alone under the stars, discovering new towns on your own.”

The waitress' brown eyes were filled with stars. She was leaning over the bar and everything from her collarbone to the skin that her silky red top barely covered – yep, Dean could work with that. “I've always wanted to go on a journey and visit every state in the country, maybe even Europe some day.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded and her blond curls bounced on her tanned shoulders.

“Maybe we could go together,” Dean suggested, revealing his teeth in a bright smile.

He winked at her, and that was it. He'd had enough experiences with women to spot the exact moment when they passed the point of no return. Her smile widened just the tiniest bit and her eyes shone for a brief moment, and that was the signal. The jury had deliberated and the verdict was an overwhelming _yes_. It was time to get her number and pretend to be receiving an important call from a record label. Which he was in the process of doing, when he was interrupted by a voice he definitely knew but whose owner he couldn't name for certain. “Dean Winchester?”

Dean wasn't sure he wanted to turn around but his body rarely waited for orders from his mind to start moving anyway. He found himself facing a tall woman with long red hair and dark grey eyes. A name seeped from his mouth. “Anna?”

She and the clearly disappointed blonde made eye contact and Dean stood back. He usually was careful enough to avoid two of his conquests to meet, but when that happened he knew the safest place was _not_ in the eye of the storm. He waited silently for the staring contest to end and the waitress to retreat, excusing herself coldly.

  
  


“So what are you doing in California?”

They hadn't bothered going to a different bar, but they had chosen a table removed enough so that the blond girl wouldn't be able to keep a hateful eye on either of them, although Dean deserved it, Anna had remarked.

“Visiting my brother,” he answered, playing with the empty glass in his hands. “Kid's going to Stanford,” he added proudly. “Family genius, he's going to become a lawyer.”

She smiled weakly and he felt uncomfortable, like she was pitying him somehow. It itched him underneath his skin, he needed to get her gaze away from his face. “What about you?”

Her reply came quickly: “I'm here for work. My gallery has contracts with a few artists around here, I'm collecting paintings, mostly.”

“That's good,” he nodded, and she smiled in reply, but it quickly disappeared from her face and her shoulders fell down slightly. “Dean, I heard about your dad.” She looked him in the eye, and he could read all the sympathy in her stare. “I know it's been a while, but, we haven't seen much of each other since...” Interrupting herself just made what she'd been about to say clearer. “And I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry, I know you two were close.”

Dean is used to tearful condolences, so he responds in the only way he's been taught to. “Well you know how it goes. Shit happens. It's not like he wasn't looking for it anyway.”

He saw her hand getting closer to his, but it changed its mind when it got a few inches away, and headed back to her side of the table to clasp around her cup of coffee. She'd learnt a thing or two about him in their time together.

“Where are you staying?” she settled for enquiring.

In that moment, Dean remembered what he'd loved about that girl. It was the ease with which she could perceive his moods and change an uncomfortable subject simply by reading his body language. Ignoring his problems weren't going to solve them, he'd been told that enough times to start believing it, but he also knew that if someone was going to force him to face them, it wasn't going to be her. She could have insisted he talked about it, like Cassie or Lisa would have done, but she'd decided not to and that was what made her so special. She knew Dean was too far gone for her to fix anything.

“Sammy's place,” he exhaled.

She nodded again. “I'm staying in a hotel not far away from here, you're free to crash on the couch in my room if you need to.”

Dean smiled, “Yeah I don't know, I think I've had my dose of foreign couches for the month.”

When she asked him what he was talking about, he dismissed it with a blink and a shake of his head; said it was too long to tell and not really worth it. She accepted it and moved on again, asking about the places he'd been and the people he'd met. He really liked that girl.

  
  


He spent the rest of his day at Bobby's garage, where the man let him work whenever he found himself anywhere close by, even though he couldn't exactly pay Dean as much as he did his official employees.

It was nice falling into the Stanford routine, especially the mechanic part of it. Working around cars was relaxing, mostly because Dean didn't have to think and time flew by. Oh, and cars didn't try to force money he didn't need into his pockets or get him to talk about his feelings. But it was more than that. His whole body felt like it belonged, his temperature rose with the exercise and he took off several layers until he was just wearing a grey shirt, remembering that he wasn't in Oregon anymore. Sweating felt good, it was evidence that he was being productive, he was working.

Bobby knew Dean liked his alone time and so tried to interrupt as little as possible, keeping it to business, telling him which car to take care of next and reminding him to drink water every now and then. However, the air eventually began to cool down and the garage was closing for the day, so Dean put his tools in his trunk and got on his way again. He didn't have anywhere to go so he headed to the apartment. It was 9pm: he could go through Charlie's collection of movies and series and find something to eat, maybe get some sleep while no one was watching. That'd be good.

He pulled over in the parking lot and quickly climbed up to the second floor. He passed the window he'd gone through the night before and tried not to glance inside the apartment. His right eye told him there wasn't anyone in the living room regardless.

As promised, Sam's window was open and Dean stepped inside his temporary bedroom. First, he needed a shower. That was his favorite part of staying at his brother's. He usually had to be smart if he wanted to get a daily hot shower. Most of the time he used his one night stands'. The thing was, this technique was a vicious circle: he needed to be clean to get in a woman's bed, and he needed to use these same women's houses to wash himself. This whole strategy made him feel like he was trapped in some way, and that was what he hated most on Earth. Living at Sammy's was a short-term liberation from this semi-prostitution, and he could stop feeling like the hot water was making him even dirtier rather than washing the filth away.

He let the heat relax his muscles, in his face, his arms, his back. He took his time massaging his body with soap, tracing the lines that defined his abdominal muscles, applying pressure on his tense shoulders. His lips slowly let all of his tention out in whines. He closed his eyes and let himself feel the calmness taking hold of him.

He felt his hand sliding down his stomach before he realized he was the one controlling it. His thumb catched in his navel and even that felt good. It had been a long time since he'd played with himself, as he usually had a woman to take care of him. Surrounded by nothing but steam, he felt in control, and he found that he appreciated the loneliness sometimes even more than new lips every night. When the tips of his fingers brushed his cock, a chill roamed up his spine and he leaned against the tiles because he wasn't sure he could hold himself up. He didn't picture anything while stroking his length, just let his nerves do their job and bring pleasure to his brain. He listened to his own moans and let his left hand caress the rest of his body, from his throat to his hips. He came with a silent cry and stood against the wall for a few more minutes. His body was his again, but the grime all his partners had left on him wasn't something he could scrape clean.

  
  


When he stepped out of the shower he realized he'd been wearing the same clothes for more than forty eight hours now and he'd forgotten to bring any from his car. He put on his boxers and a shirt borrowed from Sam (his was soaked in sweat and he'd just showered, plus his brother didn't have to know anyway), opened the door from the inside and put a book in its way so that it wouldn't lock itself again while he was out. He still left the window open just in case, and went to his car through the hall, earning a surprised but definitely interested look from the guardian. That was not on. He ignored the man and kept walking.

He got his bag out of his car and headed back towards the apartment, making sure to avoid any eye contact with the gatekeeper. The sky was dark by now, and the moon was the only light that guided him when he walked the corridor that led to his room. The building was counting on these blue rays and the lamp in the street to orient its residents through the halls, if the large panoramic windows they had chosen to cover the walls with were anything to go by. Economies on energy.

“So I take it we're not making this a recurrent thing in the end?”

Dean's body rotated before his brain had fully registered the sound. He'd failed to hear Castiel's steps on the cheap wooden floor. Either Dean was exhausted beyond human limits, or the man was actually a cat. Oh, but Dean would have been sneezing his throat out the other night, so he couldn't be.

He heard his subconscious provide that thought, and understood he _was_ exhausted.

Castiel stood in front of his own door, and was now pulling his key out of his pocket. “I _was_ going to find you a blanket you know.”

Dean hadn't moved since he'd spun around, he had just layed his eyes on the source of the noise and tried to make sense out of anything that would ground him to reality. “Oh. That's... thanks.”

Castiel's door was unlocked, but the man didn't seem like he had any intention to go through it any time soon.

“I'm more of a one-night-stand type though,” Dean added.

Castiel smiled. He must have been twenty five feet away from him, but Dean could notice his white teeth shining blue and the lines around his eyes. On the right side of his face anyway, since his whole left side was a shadow that couldn't be distinguished from the wall's.

“That's alright, the mug with your name on it is fully refundable.”

Dean had a hard time figuring if he was being serious. To be honest, he was a bit uncomfortable. Was that guy _flirting_ with him? “You're... you didn't, right?”

The mop of dark hair laughed. His upper lip uncovered a range of white teeth once again. “No, Dean, I didn't.” He leaned his left shoulder against his door. “Do people whose appartements you invade usually buy customized kitchenware for you?”

Dean blinked twice and slowly shook his head. “I uh, no – I don't usually break into strangers' houses.”

“Does that mean I'm allowed to feel special?”

Dean didn't have a smart answer. He didn't have a stupid one either, for that matter. He was tired and Castiel was asking too much of him. The pool of blue light was giving everything a surreal complexion.

“More like unlucky,” Dean eventually replied. “I'm sorry that had to end up on you, I wasn't even drunk, I swear, I'm just a bad calculator.”

Blue eyes stayed riveted on his. It was a heavy stare that kept him in place. “If that was unlucky I wonder what I could call your one night stand policy.”

That was when it became too complex for Dean's brain to follow. He broke their mutual staring by glancing at the floor and raised the palm that wasn't holding his bag in surrender. “Look,” he started as he took a step back towards his safe place.

But Dean never had a chance to finish his sentence.

“I agree,” Castiel interrupted. “You need to sleep. The blanket will be under the couch, in case you ever miscalculate again.” He smiled one last time and disappeared behind his door, which Dean could hear automatically lock itself.

 _What was that about?_ Dean dismissed the concerned part of his brain, there was no way he would tackle the question without a few hours of sleep. He got inside his brother's place and locked it behind himself. He stuffed his bag in a closet in Charlie's bedroom: Sam would nose about if Dean left it unprotected, and there was no intimidating protector of privacy like the Queen of Moons. She would be first in line to annoy Dean with questions as soon as something tease-worthy was ever discovered about him, but he knew he could trust her with his stuff, just like she'd trusted him with her Emma Watson autograph when her fellow 'Potterheads' had joined her for a thirteen hour long marathon and she'd needed a place to hide the piece of paper where no one could steal it.

Dean lied down on the couch, got the position of his pillow right, wrapped the blanket Sam had put there around his body and fell asleep before he was done marveling at how comfortable he was, alone in what felt closer to a bed than he'd had in ages.

  
  


________________________________________

  
  


  
  


The sound of steps woke him up while the sun was still asleep. His first thought was that the guy with the blue eyes was definitely some kind of magician, because even in his deep state of unconsciousness Dean had heard the tramps coming from the hall. For a second, he regretted leaving his sleeping knife in his bag, when it struck him that in case of an attack, he was utterly defenceless, without even taking the fact that he was only wearing underwear and a shirt and all his major organs were exposed into account, or that he was laying down and was therefore in a disadvantaging position.

However, he soon heard a key flirting with the lock and let the adrenaline wash out of his system. Not a stranger.

Light engulfed Dean. The steps got closer to him and suddenly stopped altogether.

Everything that followed happened quickly: he heard the footsteps rushing towards him and he opened his eyes wide, refusing to believe he'd been fooled by a simple sound of keys. A light weight heavily fell on him, and arms trapped him at his sides. He rolled to get on his back, and met vivid green eyes.

“Hi there,” Charlie greeted him. “Hope you don't mind me jumping you in the middle of the night. It's not even midnight yet how can you be asleep anyway? Or _were_ you?” She questioned squinting.

Dean sighed and covered his face with his palm. “Jesus Charlie.”

She sat up, freeing him from the ephemeral cage her limbs had been. “That actually sounds cool, someone should let the church know.”

“Don't ever do this, ever again,” he warned. His heartbeat was getting under control.

“Does that mean I scared you?” She was smiling like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Yeah, I thought you were a trained killer, you know you're quite heavy for your frame.” She hit him in the collarbone. He had to remember she did that.

She got up and headed towards the kitchen. “You're one to talk you know, you could've texted me to let me know you were here, instead of letting me find out for myself when I get home and hear someone snoring on the couch.”

He didn't snore. “I don't snore.” He sat up and let his feet fall on the ground and both his palms join his face. “Where's Sam?” he mumbled.

“Out,” she said after some time. “I'm not sure he'll be home before sunrise.” She came back with orange juice and cookies. “Want some?”

His stomach growled in disgust and he tried to push the smell away with his hand. He shook his head. “How was your convention? How's Jo?”

“t'was awesome,” she pronounced with her mouth full. “Jo was kinda lost 'cause she didn't know what we were talking about most of the time but it was cool that she came. I think she had fun too.” She chewed a little and continued. “She was dressed like Luna,” she told him with a huge smile. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor and her legs looked like butterfly wings when she said that. “I was Ginny. Kind of wish I could have gone as Hermione but my hair is a natural gift I have to exploit, and two Hermiones hooking up would be weird.”

Dean's eyes were wide. He didn't know how he could forget every year that conventions were not a topic on which you wanted to get Charlie started.

“Though with my eyes I could be Lily Potter,” she remarked frowning. “Of course it'd be a bit ridiculous if there was a Harry with –“

“Charlie,” he interrupted her. She stopped chewing and looked him in the eye.

Realization struck her and she put her half-eaten cookie down, rolling her eyes. “Sorry,” she said. “I'll go watch an episode of Chuck and let you sleep.”

She left with her juice and her food, and Dean laid down again, on his back, supporting his head with his arm. The lights switched off again, but he didn't find sleep immediately. Instead he thought about his day. He didn't know if he was going to meet with Anna again. He didn't know if he even wanted to. He'd definitely drop by Bobby's tomorrow, maybe offer him a beer and have him talk about his year.

Then there was the Castiel business. Now that he'd rested for an hour or two he saw things somehow clearer. He was almost certain the man had tried to flirt with him, but he couldn't be a hundred percent sure. Maybe he was just really good at keeping a straight face with sarcasm, maybe he was making fun of him. Whatever it was, there was something off-putting about this guy, and Dean was torn between hoping they'd meet again so he could put his finger on it, or hoping he'd seen the last of him and he would never have to face the trenchcoat issue again. Trenchcoat issue, that was a good name, he told himself as sleep took him for the second time that night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chuck is a series about a guy who studied IT at Stanford and got kicked out for cheating on his finals, and now he's working at a Buy More, which is quite a shitty job for someone with his level of education. But one day, by a complicated process that takes too long to explain, he wakes up with all kinds of confidential information (CIA / NSA confidential) and two agents are sent to protect him/make sure he doesn't screw up and tell some terrorists about the stuff he knows.


	3. Sir, please stand behind the line.

“Oh my God, what are you two even eating?”

Sam's hair was a mess. A _I had sex with a lion while falling out of a helicopter into a hurricane_ mess. He looked at Dean and Charlie, who had instantly quit chewing on their morning bacon and cheese sandwiches to admire his mane. He sniffed and immediately regretted it as his intestines constricted around everything he'd ever eaten.

Dean raised his eyebrows and forced what he'd already shoved into mouth down his throat in a painful motion. “Bacon, cheese and bread served in an ashtray,” he answered. “Want some? Otherwise we've got maggot soup and fondue.” He grinned as he saw his brother ran to the bathroom. “Let it out Sammy,” Dean yelled, “just let it all out.”

“Dude,” Charlie interjected with a disgusted frown, “Gross.”

Dean huffed. “Like you could ever throw up. I've seen pictures of you eating 3 foot long sandwiches watching Saw in one of your freaking geeky food competitions, your stomach is bullet proof.”

She winced, tilting her head to the side in acknowledgement. “Touché.”

“God, my head.” Sam entered the kitchen again, rubbing at his forehead. “Charlie just promise me, swear you'll never let me drink again.”

She shook her head. “Can't do that, I am not promoting hardcore studying ever,” she told him, playing with the spoon she was holding between her teeth. She looked at her watch. “Talking about studying, I'd love to stuff more fat into my belly but I've got to go.” She disappeared into her room and came back with a blue hoodie that clashed with her red ponytail. “Peace out bitches.” And just like that, she was gone, her computer bag hanging on her right shoulder.

Dean smiled fondly at the shut door for a second and then resumed devouring his breakfast. “You know,” he said as crumbs escaped his mouth, “I'll never understand how you got her to want to live with your vegetarian ass,” he swallowed. “That girl is _way_ too good for you.”

“I'm not a vegetarian Dean.”

“Oh yeah? Smelling this deliciously grilled bacon shouldn't be a problem then should it?” He asked shoving his plate under Sam's nose as the man tried to escape, in vain. “Since when do you even drink?” He shouted when Sam took a run for the toilet once again.

  
  


There was always a short period of awkwardness when Dean came around. The first few days, the two brothers and Charlie had to find their places around eachother again, as the kids grew up and Dean grew old. The line was clean cut between the two. Sam and their surrogate sister were experiencing new things every day, meeting new people, getting drunk enough to puke at the smell of bacon in the morning, and kissing girls dressed like Hermione at conventions. On the other hand, Dean had never been protected from anything as a child: sex, violence, death, it'd all been thrown at him and he'd learnt to deal with it before someone had tried to explain him how math worked. He was done learning. He was done growing up. All he was ever going to do was age, and his family discovered it again and again everytime they reached a new stage in life and realized he hadn't moved on. So of course the first few days were weird. This time however, Dean had barely noticed any streched silences or embarrassed glares. Maybe they were starting to get used to it, to know him, or maybe they were growing up slower.

Whatever it was, days passed and soon it felt like Dean had been there forever. He even joined Sam and his friends when they went to a bar, and let Charlie introduce him to Game of Thrones. He didn't really enjoy it–fantastic universes weren't really his thing–but the red-head's reactions to cliff-hangers of which she already knew the resolution and jokes she'd already heard a million times were priceless.

He worked at Bobby's three to six hours a day and gave most of the money to Charlie, who was less likely to shove it back up his ass than Sam was. If the kid was smart–and Dean believed she was–she would keep it in a jar and start saving. He tried to teach Sammy a few things about how to pick girls and how to seduce them, but his brother was having none of it. That was a shame, with his height, the muscles he'd developed over the years and his eyes that were almost as green as Dean's, he had such potential. Such wasted potential.

  
  


It had been a week since Dean had broken into the wrong apartment and he was having cereal for the first time in years, watching a western Sam had rented for him, when his brother walked to him with a cardboard box.

“Hey, the delivery guy just gave this to me,” he announced curiously, eyeing the thing. “It's got your name on it.”

“What?” Dean put his bowl down. “What is it?”

Dean was suddenly alarmed. Why would anyone send him anything? And how did they even know where he was? The only people who did were Sam, Charlie, Bobby, and maybe a few law students, and none of them had any reason to send him the cubic package Sammy was handing him.

“I don't know, you should open it.”

Dean hesitated for a second. He wasn't absolutely sure he wanted to know what was inside. Had he been alone he would already have opened the damn thing but his little brother was watching and what if what was inside that box wasn't something he wanted Sammy to see?

He then got up and went to get a knife from the kitchen, with which he cut the box open. Something was wrapped in bubble wrap. He unwrapped the bubble wrap to reveal a mug made of glass, with, in five careful black letters, the word _Dean_ written on the front.

Dean's brain short-circuited as silence fell in the apartment for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

“What is it?” Sam enquired after a few minutes of awkward nothing.

Dean swallowed. “It's a mug,” he replied.

He hadn't thought about Castiel since that last night when the man had been painted in blue. He'd sworn he would focus on the matter in the morning but had forgotten all about it, and now their surreal conversation was coming back to him. _No, Dean, I didn't._

“Who is sending you a _mug_?”

“I don't know,” Dean lied.

“You don't know.” Sam repeated. “Someone's sending you a mug with your name on it,” he said snatching the cup from Dean's hands, “and you have no idea who it could be.” The younger Winchester turned the thing around in his hands, upside down, checked it for any indication of where or who it might be coming from, but found nothing. “Dude, that is weird, even for you.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Dean said slowly.

He was trying to get his brain to full power again, but it felt as if he'd been punched in the face or drugged with morphine, his cerebral capacity greatly diminished.

“It's quite beautiful,” Sam remarked after a pause. “It's weird, but beautiful.”

Weird, Dean agreed. Beautiful, he didn't know. It was a cup. It wasn't meant to be beautiful, it was meant to be drank. Plus the inscription made him feel uncomfortable, he didn't like seeing his own name written on something that wasn't his.

“The delivery guy,” he spoke suddenly. “Did he say anything?”

Sam shrugged and shook his head. “Nah, just that he had a delivery for a Dean Winchester.”

Castiel must have known Sam's family name. Why was he sending this? Was his sense of humor that twisted? Joking about being a creep was one thing, but actually ordering 'customized kitchenware', to use the man's words, and knowingly sending it to Dean's brother's address was another. It was _crossing a fucking line_.

  
  


________________________________________

  
  


  
  


Dean waited for Sam to be gone to head out himself. He'd told himself he would go straight up to knock on the freaking neighboor's door, throw the mug at his face and warn him not to ever try and make any kind of contact with him ever again, but now that he had no excuse to delay it anymore, he was starting to doubt his flawless plan.

He got his shit together less than a minute later, got out, walking up to Castiel's door in ten large steps, and stopped there. He stopped breathing too, realizing he had no idea what he was going to say as his fist hit the wood a first time. For a brief instant he wished he could take that sound back and go back inside and watch Game of Thrones until his consciousness passed out.

Ten seconds went by, then fifteen, and after seventeen seconds he started breathing again. Castiel was out. There was a God.

The door opened as he sighed in relief.

“Dean.”

The man who'd appeared was wearing a white shirt covered in painting, and had grey marks on his face. He was the same man Dean had been confronted to in the past, and yet, without his oversized trenchcoat and his tie, he looked fundamentally different. His face was the same though, with a smile that wasn't pure amusement but not exactly sarcasm either.

Blue eyes gazed down at the thing Dean was holding with both his hands now. Castiel stopped smiling.

“Oh.”

“I'm just here to make sure this was from you,” Dean heard himself say, “and not a complete psychopath who followed me home.”

Castiel licked his lips. “This isn't a good time.”

“You sent a freaking cup with my name on it to my brother's address, you don't get to tell me when it's a good time.” Dean was proud to hear the ice in his voice.

The blue eyes stared at him. It appeared to Dean they were testing him, trying to decide how far he'd go to get the answers he wanted and there were very few things Dean Winchester would stop at. Eventually, Castiel opened his door wide and moved away from the entrance. “Come on in.”

The invitation took Dean by surprise and he stepped inside before his mind could tell him that it might have been a bad idea. The door was shut behind him and he turned around to face Castiel, whom he found leaning against his door, hands between the wood and the small of his back. Both of Dean's hands were still wrapped around the glass, and he didn't really know what to do with his body right then, so he decided to take a look around, which the dark-haired man quietly allowed him to do. The walls were white, all of them. The floor was dark oak, or something that looked like oak to Dean's humble eyes. The couch he had slept on was the only part of the room that wasn't crowded with papers or books.

There was a small room on his left, with a rectanglurar hole in the wall instead of a door. Inside was an easel facing a window through which a few green leaves penetrated the place. Dean couldn't see all of it from where he was standing but it seemed like a tree was hiding the whole window from the rest of the world. On the easel he could see a canvas on which curves had lightly been drawn with a pencil.

He looked back to Castiel, who hadn't moved an inch and was staring at him expectantly, waiting for Dean to break the silence.

“I hadn't seen that room the first time,” Dean uttered eventually, as the cup in his hands slowly became heavier and heavier. “That's a coincidence,” he whispered to himself.

“What is?” The other man still hadn't moved and was becoming more and more defensive.

Dean smiled to the floor and shook his head. It did nothing to lift the weight of the blue eyes on him. “Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just, you wouldn't happen to work for Anna Milton, would you?”

Castiel crooked his head and squinted. “I have sold her a couple paintings if this is what you mean, though I do not believe I would call this working for her.”

Dean nodded at Castiel's throat in order to avoid his eyes. He'd forgotten what he had come here for in the first place, all that was left was his desire to put down the mug somewhere and take a peek at the close to blank canvas.

Not one second did the blue eyes leave his face.

“Anyway.” These silences were earnestly starting to make him feel uncomfortable. “I guess if you're the one who sent this I don't have to worry about someone creepily following me in the dark. I get it, I mean I probably couldn't have resisted ordering it either, it would have been a wasted opportunity huh?” Castiel was mute. “Yeah... so you were probably just trying to make me laugh and I freaked out, sorry for disturbing you in the middle of something.”

“I wasn't.”

Dean's eyes flew straight up to focus on the man's own. Castiel's widened as though he hadn't ordered these words to come out, which was actually possible given how quickly he'd replied. For the first time, he was the one who looked away. His cheeks even turned a little pink as he damned his tongue.

“I didn't send this in a humorous purpose,” he precised.

Hearing these words falling out of Castiel's mouth felt like receiving a confession to a triple murder. Other than the uncommon way in which he spoke, the implications behind his avowal were as clear as implications get and yet for the life of him Dean couldn't sort out what it was he was trying to say. As he opened his mouth with no certain idea of what was going to come out, the dark-haired man beat him to it.

“I had no way to ensure we would ever speak again so when I saw one of my coworkers drink his coffee from a cup that read his name and he told me where he had bought it I thought maybe you would be intrigued and you would miscalculate again, I acted impulsively.” He paused as they looked at eachother, Castiel with waver and Dean like he'd suddenly been struck by amnesia. “I apologize for the discomfort I have caused you. Am, causing you, still.” He waited as Dean turned into a mystified statue. “I believe I would feel much more comfortable myself if you were to say something.”

Dean blinked. Hope. There was hope behind Castiel's words. But more importantly, there was a excitement and a hint of fear in his eyes. There was fear in Castiel's eyes, green leaves in the room on Dean's left, and soft lines on the canvas. “I'm not gay.”

That wasn't what he'd meant to say. It was true, but he had wanted to opt for a more gentle response. The way Castiel had been looking at him was almost child-like. There had been conflicted emotions in the blue of his eyes, but there had been no trace of a shield. Most adults who have been through several relationships seduce with sarcasm, pretend they won't be affected by whatever reaction they receive the best they can, hide behind indifferent smiles and elusive eyes; but Castiel's demeanor was nothing like that. He had let his hopes up and his guard down, and Dean's words felt like a slap even to himself.

He was hit by the memory of that girl he'd tried to impress in 4th grade by telling her Santa was just a story parents told to keep their children from growing up too fast, but he knew better. He'd fired a gun, too. _I never want to see you again, Dean Anderson._

“It's fine, Dean,” Castiel said, looking down, a smile of which Dean could not determine the nature nor the reason playing on his lips. “I didn't mean to force you into any sort of commitment.” He carefully detached himself from the door and put on a jacket hanging on a nearby coat rack. He zipped it up and put his hands in his pockets. It looked warm. “I'm sorry if I have scarred you for life.”

Dean actually huffed out a laugh. “No offense but it's gonna take you much more than that to break me.”

Castiel made eye contact with him again, and smiled. “We'll see.”

 

 


	4. Good old plan A is here to stay.

 

Dean was thinking. It happened on rare occasions, when he had no engine to fix nor ladies to take care of. He still had nine episodes of Game of Thrones to watch but he couldn't even focus on porn so what was the point? No wonder he hadn't attended college, he had to cogitate maybe one hour a week and it already gave him headaches. So now he is laying and looking at a stain on the ceiling and he must have been in that position for hours but there is no way to be sure because he left his watch in the bathroom and he doesn't think his brain would be able to guide his body at the same time that it has to deal with the Trenchcoat Issue. Is Castiel openly flirting with him now? How can he put an end to it? _Does_ he want to put an end to it? He should want to put an end to it. He should put an end to it right now, go back and knock on his door again and call him a cockwhore and tell him to fuck the fuck off and out of his life.

Can he though? It _is_ what he would have done had it been a random guy trying to buy him a drink, or checking him out in the street, but that situation is different. It is different because first of all Castiel has a name. Dean couldn't even imagine referring to the man as 'the gay guy that hit on him'. Castiel also has a background. Dean has had an insight, however small, on what kind of person he is. He has been inside his home, has even slept there. He knows the man is an paintor and has tons of papers laying around his apartment. Dean knows too much to simply dismiss him. Being the homophobic asshole he has perfected along the years isn't an option.

And that is the problem. There is no other option. He has no plan B, just good old plan A.

He wishes Castiel could just vaporize. _If you cannot deal with a problem, make it disappear_ , his father had once taught him. That instruction is zero per cent useful, there is no making Castiel disappear. No, the only thing he could do would be to disappear himself; shorten his stay at Sam's, take his Baby and drive away into the Californian sunset. Ridiculous and so very childish. Just because one man can't understand that he isn't playing for his team doesn't mean he's going to flee like a frightened little boy. Besides, he still has nine episodes of Game of Thrones to watch with Charlie. He would simply refrain from visiting Sammy's neighboor, which would be child's play, and politely nod at him and walk away in case of encounter. Castiel seemed to be a nice guy, and Dean is definitely not homophobic – just look at his relationship with the red-hair whom he almost considers to be his sister – but that doesn't mean he is comfortable with one of these people being interested in him.

Yes, a civil aknowledgment of Castiel's existence and nothing more would do just fine.

 

 

To be fair, it had worked for a solid week. Dean had seen Cas (he'd given him the nickname the day he sorted things out between them in his head; _Castiel_ , even in his internal monologues, was too much of a mouthful) twice since he had put his plan into action.

The first time, he was leaving the flat and found him getting home. He had acted as if he'd met an old conquest; he'd smiled and nodded at him, _I know we've spent some time together but there really is no need to go any further than that_ kinda thing. Cas had answered his brief smile with bright blue eyes. Give him a blond hair and he would look like the Little Prince, or an angel. He must have been around twenty seven, but he looked so much younger when he smiled and widened his eyes. Dean had averted his gaze and kept walking as he heard Cas' door open. Goal Achieved.

The second time, he'd been less successful at being discreetly indifferent. In his defence, it'd been out of his hands. Ignoring Castiel was already hard enough without anyone to comment on the awkwardness that floated between the both of them. Try as he might, he could not fight Meg and Charlie when they got out of his car into the parking lot, coming back from a Marvel movie, and were faced with the back of a trench coat moving towards the main entrance of the building.

“Hey that's Cas,” the red-haired girl had said just loud enough for the man to shot a glance at them over his shoulder, and turn around completely when he saw Dean. “Oh,” she'd breathed lower. “Awkward, I tried to talk to him once but he's a bit shy I think. He seemed nice though. You'd know,” she grined as she elbowed Dean. He was going to kill Sam for telling her about his _'miscalculation'_.

“Castiel,” he corrected her in what seemed to be an automatism. “I mean, if it's too long,” he stuttered, “of course, you can call me anything you want. It's just, my name is Castiel.”

Dean frowned. He'd barely ever seen the guy blush and he'd seen him in _way_ more embarrassing situations than that. It wasn't like him to trip over his own words. That was invitation enough for Meg all the same.

“Oh I'd be careful saying that,” she pronounced languidly. Dean swore, with those intonations, everything that girl said sounded pornographic one way or another. “I _would_ call you Columbo but I think we can find something more exciting than that.”

It was Castiel's turn to frown, and squint, too. “I don't understand that reference.”

It was like Dean had been thrown into a parallel universe. It felt like he didn't know the man who was standing before him and his two dates. Where had the wolfish smiles and the seductively leaning against doors gone?

 _Seductively?_ Which son of a bitch in charge of internal monologues had come up with that one?

“You've never watched Columbo,” Charlie half asked half repeated for herself. “Your place is in a museum.”

“Seconded,” Meg quickly followed. “Although not behind glass.”

Castiel crooked his head.

“It's a TV show,” Dean explained. “I don't know if you could call it famous.”

“You _can_ ,” Charlie almost spat at him, “and you should. Anyone who has never tried to figure out how he was gonna solve the case while drinking hot chocolate will never reach completion. Ever.”

Cas made eye contact with Dean, and even though he was quite far from him, his amused or confused smile was still perfectly discernable. Dean replied with a shrug.

“I suppose I shall have to repair this offense to my own fulfillment.”

Everyone was silent while the words echoed in their ears. Only Dean smiled to himself looking a the ground. Yeah, Cas spoke weirdly sometimes.

“Definitely,” Charlie agreed after a while. “You know what, you should come by some time and we could watch an episode all together. I mean you've been our neighboor for what? Four years? You've never joined us for diner ever.”

Castiel's eyes widened slightly in apprehension, but it was nothing compared to the face Dean made. He was almost certain one eye had popped out of his skull. All his good intentions and for what? For Charlie to ruin it all in less than a minute?

“I... guess I could... join you. One day. I mean, if it doesn't go against anyone's better –“

“It doesn't,” Meg stopped him.

Blue eyes looked helplessly at Dean. He could read the apology in them.

“It would be my pleasure,” the man later pronouced, eyes still fixed on Dean's.

 

 

 

It wasn't like he could complain. People complained when their friends teased them about their crushes and their roommates invited them to have dinner in their apartment. Dean didn't have a crush on Cas, and it wasn't his apartment. All he could do was stand down and listen to Meg about what she imagined was hiding under that freaking trench coat he'd name one of his major concerns after. And boy did she have a vivid imagination. Dean didn't understand how such an aggressively seductive girl had ended up going out with his little brother. Don't misunderstand him; he'd been really proud and even a little jealous, but it wasn't like Sam to fall for a walking sexual innuendo. It had been no surprise at all when he'd asked about her the year after she'd entered the picture only to learn that it hadn't even lasted a month. But the two had remained friends, and it was like their time as lovers had only been a weird dream they'd shared. Dean wouldn't try anything with her though, sharing a girl with your brother was too much sharing.

“I don't know if hidden tattoos would destroy the angelic look there is to him or bring a bad boy note to it,” she was mostly babbling away and Dean was mostly searching for a way to escape the room, but that caught his attention. “I mean it could ruin it all if he had a flower or a bird or something too childish because he already looks like a baby in a trench coat, but I'm thinking black, maybe tribal, on the small of his back or spiraling up his thighs. Charlie what do you think?”

Charlie was sitting upside down on the couch, her back against the seat, her thighs against the back of the sofa and her feet in the air. Her head was resting upon Dean's shoulder as he was sitting on the floor, a bottle of beer in his hand. “Are you seriously asking me to fantasize about a human being attached to a penis?”

Meg sighed. She was laying on the floor and let her head fall to the side to face the two of them. “Come on guys, I'm gonna need someone who understands the appeal of the male body while Jo is working.”

“Don't even think about it,” Charlie warned, “if I hear one more conversation between you and Ruby I will pierce my eardrums with a needle. You two... you're going to Hell.”

Dean winced. He didn't like Ruby too much. There was something about the way she looked at his brother, he just didn't trust her and her smiles.

“Isn't Sam supposed to be here?” He changed the subject.

Charlie raised her right arm to take a look at her watch. “It's eight, he should be here any minute. Unless he's forgotten time doesn't stop when he's in the library again.”

“What is wrong with that kid,” Dean and Meg asked the universe at the same time.

“Yeah well that's easy for you to say,” the red-head replied with as much authority as she could manage in her geographical position. “You've got your tattoo thing and you,” she said throwing an arm back to send her fingers dancing on Dean's head, “are a lost cause. He's going to become the lawyer with the longest hair the world has ever seen. That's quite a title.”

The lawyer with the longest hair the world would ever see opened the front door as she spoke. Sam looked tired. Dean recognized himself in the way his shoulders were slumped and his eyes were weary after a long day.

“Wow,” Sam stopped and frowned. “Didn't know you guys had planned a girls night. Sorry.”

Meg sighed again. “It _would_ be, if only everyone here wasn't so painfully into girls.”

“It's not a 'girls night'.” Dean exaggerated the quotations marks. “Meg is just...”

“Meg is a frustrated heterosexual,” Charlie stated.

Sam nodded. “That's cool,” he said. “Which Jane Austen movie are you gonna watch?”

All three of them grunted, and Sam chuckled.

“Pronounce that name one more time and I'm brading your hair,” Dean threatened.

His brother raised his hands in surrender. “Alright alright. What are we eating? Meg.” She deigned to glare at him. “You're not sleeping here unless you can convince Dean to share his bed with you, I'm not letting you sleep on the floor.”

“I'm not,” she answered. “I'm going home. Maybe Ruby can join me there and we can talk about your neighboor like normal people do.”

Sam's head popped out of the kitchen. “Sorry what?”

Dean got on his feet to go get himself another beer. Meg extended a hand to him hoping he would help her up too. He contemplated being a nice friend for a second but thought against it and she rolled her eyes. “Meg is lusting after Cas,” he explained with a flat voice.

It didn't exactly bother him. He just knew that Cas was into dudes. It didn't have to mean that he wasn't into girls too, Dean knew that, but it did make chances thinner. Plus Meg wasn't one for long-term relationships and Castiel didn't look like the one night stand type. She'd have fun one night and probably leave the poor bastard and his hopes in the morning. She would do it anyway, but it didn't have to be with someone Dean would have no other choice but to actually see in the morning.

He took another beer from the fridge and suggested ordering pizza, for which they settled even after Sam's sermon about health and food and green stuff. Meg left before it arrived, she was a vegetarian anyway, something Dean would never understand, especially about her; the woman was a tiger that ran on rabbit food. Sammy and Charlie went to eat their slice in their respective bedrooms because they were still college students and sometimes something they called homework could no longer be delayed, as Dean ate all that was left on his own, watching television.

He couldn't help it, his brain started thinking. When he was done eating his head felt like it was going to explode. He needed to stop torturing himself over this. Cas had thought he might be interested, so what? He'd hit on lesbians a few times himself, did that make him a pervert? Well, maybe the thoughts that had flooded his mind on these occasions did, but he couldn't be blamed for mistaking gay women for straight ones; it wasn't like there was any exterior sign that read 'legitimate potential lover' on the laters; and Castiel could not be blamed for hitting on him. It wasn't like he'd been aggressive or even rude to Dean, so Dean would be the asshole if he was to make things more complicated than they had to be. His friend, whose apartment this was, had invited her neighboor, who happened to be into guys and more precisely into Dean, to watch a movie. And he was going to live with it because there was nothing else he could do.

 

________________________________________

 

 

He spent most of the next day working at Bobby's. He'd arrived early in the morning claiming he needed to do something with his hands. He did, but mostly he needed to stop his brain from ruminating over and over, and he only knew of four cures for cases of overthinking. Drinking himself into oblivion was not acceptable while he stayed at Sam's; he was comfortable in the short celibacy period he was going through; and the fourth... well, he'd better not think about that one. Which meant he found himself hands and shirt covered in sludge with AC/DC pumping through his Baby's radio at eight thirty.

He was able to focus on what his hands were doing, but couldn't quite take his mind off everything. For some reason he tensed up every time he could hear a new car driving in the gravel and couldn't relax until he knew for sure it wasn't Castiel's. He didn't even know what kind of car he drove so he had to watch every car until the driver got out. It must have been something about the coincidences that had led them to meet until then, he didn't walk in and out of the apartment all day, and yet he seemed to come across him every time he did. And the man had actually sent him a gift. Was it this far-fetched to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was following him? Why couldn't Dean choose what to believe? One minute he was trying to convince himself he had nothing to be concerned about, and the other it appeared clear to him that Castiel was creeping on him.

The woman wearing a denim jacket who'd just gotten out of her red porsche wasn't Castiel. Dean focused on the radiator he was removing again.

“Excuse me.” She was approaching him and swinging her hips at him. Her legs were long and tanned. “Do you work here?” She sounded British. Her teeth shone in comparison with the colour of her skin and the red of her lips.

Dean let go of the radiator and wiped his hands on his pants. “I do today,” he answered. “But if you wanna speak with the manager you'll find him over-there,” he motioned his head towards the house with a smile.

“Hum, I don't know, I think you can help me just fine, I've just got a problem with my klaxon.”

“You're probably looking for Benny, he's the one who takes care of that, I usually just tamper with the engine.”

She crooked her head. It looked familiar. “Maybe you could take a look? I mean it doesn't seem to be too damaged, the sound it's making is just weird.”

There was no denying that she was attractive. She was gorgeous. But then, so was practically every woman in California and Dean was putting a leash on his libido, even if that blond waitress had almost been a failure. He could probably see if he could help her himself or redirect her to Benny. He followed her to her car in slid in behind the wheel. “Nice wheels.” She mumbled a thanks. He tried the horn once. It worked. “I don't get it, what's the problem?”

“The problem is my boss isn't done with you, Dean.” She crouched on his side, left hand gripping the door. A large smile bared her teeth as if they were fangs. “He put so much effort into finding you and here you are,” she shot a disgusted glance at the place surrounding them, “fixing cars in a crappy garage. Not really worthy of you.” Dean tensed as his hand automatically reached for his gun. “Hey, no need for that,” she raised her right palm, “I'm just here to talk.”

“Who are you working for?” He was watching her every move.

She threw her long hair back. “Take a guess.”

Dean breathed out, refusing to relax his jaw. “Crowley.”

Her smile extended again. “That's right cowboy, I spent a long time tracking you down here.”

“Any more Englishmen in New York I should sharpen my knife for?”

“I wouldn't throw racist punches if I were you,” she said getting up, “he thought your Yankee brutality might need some British elegance.”

“He wants us to be partners?”

She nodded as her red lips closed around her grin. “That's right. One job, and I'm gone.”

“I'm out of that business and he knows it.” He got out of the car and stretched his spine to fully reveal the six inches he had on her. “So you can just leave already, or I can drag you out of here.”

She laughed. “He said you'd be reluctant. Dean Winchester... are you telling me you're counting on spending the rest of your life bent over a car for fifty dollars a day? Wasting the talents you spent a whole life perfecting when someone will pay you thousands for them?”

“Listen chuckles –“

“Bela.”

“Whatever,” Dean snapped. “You leave this place in that big-ticket car of yours and you never come back, or I'm putting a bullet in your brain. And I won't do it with a gun.”

Her grin didn't disappear. If anything it grew. “Sure.” She escaped the cage Dean had formed with his left hand on the door by sitting in her car, and he closed the door for her. She was about to drive off when she put large sunglasses on and spoke above the engine. “I'll be in touch.”

Dean waited for the shining red spot to disappear from his sight before he went back to pick up the radiator, and threw it in the gravel.

 

________________________________________

 

 

The drive back to the apartment was a long one. He didn't even know what to think about anymore. He was counting on stopping at the bar to see if he could pick up Sam or even Jo there, but he switched to automatic mode and his subconscious drove him home directly. He pulled over and went to open his truck, making sure no one could see him. He picked a knife there, leaving the shotguns and rifles for now, and hid it next to his gun, covering it with his leather jacket.

When he got in, he heard laughs coming from the kitchen. He went to Charlie's room first, and put both the knife and the gun in the bag he'd hidden there. He put on the best smile he could master right then and walked to the source of the noise. There, he found Sam, Charlie, Meg and Jo drinking beers; and at the end of the table, facing a glass of water that had barely been touched, Castiel, his blue eyes immediately finding Dean's and hanging onto them like a life buoy.

 


	5. Do I look like an astronaut?

 

“Did they seriously refuse to give you a beer like the selfish alcoholics they are?”

It was hard pulling his gaze away from Castiel when the blue eyes held him with such force. The room had fallen silent but Dean couldn't hear it as he watched the man smile faintly, and finally look down. “I don't drink,” he confessed.

“Give it an hour,” Meg teased.

Dean could have sworn he'd seen Castiel blush at that exact moment. The more time he spent with him, the more confused he was. The man had two distinct personalities and was no telling which one would show up and when; with any certainty at least. It seemed he was almost over-confident when facing one person alone, and became all flustered around a group. Possibly especially strangers. In all likelyhood, especially strangers who drank and laughed and behaved like they were all members of the same family when the man himself was swallowing water only.

“We're watching Columbo tonight,” Charlie said. “Meg intercepted Cas when she arrived and turns out he was free tonight so...”

Dean nodded. It was weird, having your kid brother and his college friends all giggling around a man who was your age and awkwardly sitting there. He remembered the few nights he'd spent in bars with the few friends he'd had when he was a teen himself. They'd all known eachother for years, they knew their way around one another. They were all small families, of three or five or twelve people, who'd found a second home in eachother. Now Dean, he'd never been more than the distant cousin, doing something nobody fully understood or cared about in a foreign country, and who visited every ten years even though no one knew why anymore. Castiel was willing to become a part of their family for the night, but he obviously had no idea where to start, as clueless as Dean had been.

“ _Were_ you free or did she insist you came until you gave in?”

Castiel's smile broadened a little as he looked up again. “If by 'insist' you mean threaten with a knife,” there was a round of laughter and he shot a surprised glance around the table.

“That's not true,” Meg countered indignantly. “When I found him he was reading book in Russian. As far as I'm concerned I did you a favor.”

“You speak Russian?” Sam asked before Dean could open his mouth.

Castiel shrugged and put his hands around his glass, looking at the way the limpid liquid danced. “My grandfather was Russian, my mother taught me how to read it. Sadly I never learnt how to speak it.”

The glint that had lit in Meg's eyes died when he delivered the second sentence, even if she refrained from commenting.

“Do you ever visit people in Russia?” Jo asked, “Hi, Dean, by the way.”

Dean and Castiel looked at eachother, waiting to see who would answer first. Dean motioned for him to speak as he smiled at Jo.

“No, I live here now. I don't have much family left.”

No one seemed too keen on going down that road, so Sam changed the subject. “Hey, um, maybe we could order something to eat, now that Dean has graced us with his presence. I'm kind of starving.”

“Yep, yep yep yep I agree,” Charlie nodded enthusiastically. “We should have pizza.”

“We have pizza everytime,” Sam complained.

“That's because pizza is my favorite food and I'm the ultimate authority in this house.”

“ _Or_ ,” Dean intervened, “I could cook burgers for everyone.”

Everyone except Meg raised interested eyes at him.

“Those in favour,” Jo called as she raised her hand.

Castiel saw everybody raise their hands and so he did hesitantly. Once again, only Meg looked indifferent.

“What about those of us who don't eat meat?”

“I guess you'll have to coach me and together we'll find something to put with your bread. Just the two of us in the kitchen, let the magic happen,” he said with a smirk.

She squinted at him and he frowned. _What?_

“Alright,” she agreed.

 

Charlie gets the television started in the living room, and Sam, Jo and Castiel sit down on the couch. Meanwhile, Dean and Meg cut onions and broil steaks.

“How long is it gonna take?” Charlie calls out.

“Babe I think you can start without us,” Meg drawls. “You'll just tell us what happened.”

Dean hears Castiel's voice mumble something; he can't make out the words, but he hears the laugh that errupts from Jo, and wonders what the dark-haired man said.

“Guys that sucks, the point of watching something together is to be together,” Charlie complains.

Dean's head pops out of the kitchen to look her in the eye as he tells her that she can either have him watching the tv right away and die starving, or accept to live without him for a few minutes and eat a delicious homemade burger. She doens't take too much time making a choice and he's back in the kitchen.

They hear music coming from the living room, and silence replaces Sam's voice. For a moment, they work in silence, and it is pleasant, comfortable. It's home. Dean feels the corners of his mouth pull up at the thought. The world outside of the small apartment has disappeared. There is no past, no future, just this perfect moment forever.

“What are you grining about?” Meg enquires. She isn't being disagreeable, just curious. In fact, Dean finds the hint of a smile of her own when he looks at her. “You look like you're in love. This cooking vegetarian thing wasn't just an excuse to get me alone, was it?”

“Shut up.” His smile broadens and he throws a slice of onion at her, which she dodges.

“Seriously,” she insists a bit more intently, “what's on your mind?”

“Nothing,” he answers. It's true, Dean isn't thinking about anything. He is focused on what he is doing. He should be worried for so many reasons, and yet, some part of his mind has shaken it all off. He is in his brother's apartment, among friends, he knows where he is sleeping tonight, and he's cooking burgers for his family. He simply cannot understand how his life has ever felt wrong. “I'm just happy I guess.”

“Woah, did you just use the H word?”

“Stop being such a mood-killer and give me those tomatoes already.”

She passes him the chopping board with the slices of tomatoes on it and leans against the counter. Dean assembles the sandwiches and waits for the meat to be cooked.

“Hey, Dean?” Meg actually looks serious when she speaks. Even though her neverending sarcastic smile hasn't disappeared, her arms are crossed over her chest, and her eyebrows are slightly drawn together. He hums to tell her to go on. She breathes in. “It doesn't bother you that I like him, does it?”

That was it. She'd put an end to the moment.

“What?” He turned to face her properly.

She breathed out noisily. “I just wanna make sure I'm not hitting on something you've already got dibs on.” Dean's face was an impersonation of the feeling of surprise. “Oh come on,” she crooked her head. “I know you're not gay and everything, but you can't deny that you're weirdly attracted to him. Even if it's in a platonic way.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, I'm being incredibly sarcastic.” She flashed him a wide insincere smile. “Of course I'm being serious, you're giving him puppy eyes every time you look at him.”

Dean frowned and crossed his arms over his chest himself. “Balls.”

She showed him her palms. “Hey I'm just trying to be a good friend here. I could just break his shell and push him against a wall you know, he'd give in so easily...”

“I don't need to know about that.”

She huffed out a laugh. “So you're okay with this? Completely? Dibs aren't something I wanna mess with. Especially yours.”

“Meg. He... he's a _he_. How can you even – I don't swing that way.”

“Fine,” she smiled.

“Fine.”

“I think your steaks are burning.”

 

________________________________________

 

 

Dean forced his brother off his own couch so that he could sit. _Elders have priority_ , he told him. Jo had been allowed to stay thanks to her slender frame. He ended up sitting next to Castiel, who had his knees under his chin and his arms around his legs. He was squinting at the television, completely absorbed by it.

“So who's done what?” Dean asked as Meg distributed the plates.

“The blond guy killed the bald guy's wife because she was blackmailing him,” Sam answered.

“I don't understand,” Castiel admitted slowly. “Isn't the point of detective stories to discover the identity of the murderer at the end?” He didn't sound shy anymore, whatever barrior there had been between him and the rest of them had faded when his fascination for the screen had aroused.

“That show's the other way around,” Jo replied without looking away from the television, her mouth full of beef and bread and tomatoes.

“That's why it's so cool,” Charlie added.

As she gave no further explanation, Castiel turned to Dean with questioning eyes. Even with the screen as only source of light, his eyes were still distinctively blue. That was impressive.

“You're supposed to make bets on how the murderer's gonna get caught,” Dean explained. “But since it's your first episode it'd be kind of unfair, everyone of these geeks has had years of practice.”

“Does the murderer get caught everytime?” Castiel asked, his eyes still on Dean.

Sam chuckled around his sandwich. “Yeah, Cas, that's kind of the point.”

“Oh,” he simply let out. Dean contained his smile, but it was there, warmly hidden somewhere inside. Cas picked up his sandwich and took a bite. Dean watched him chew once, twice in the corner of his eye. A groan escaped the man and everyone turned around to look at him. “This is really good,” he said with a huge smile.

Meg's eyes were as wide as Dean had ever seen them. “Okay now I'm seriously wondering what you'll soun–“ but Charlie elbowed her in the ribs.

“Guys he just found a clue stop speaking.”

Dean saw the wolfish smile Meg addressed Castiel before turning back to the television. She wasn't just interested in him, he was a prey and she was going to devour him. _Good for him_ , he thought; if Cas did do girls, he'd spend one hell of a night. If he didn't, Dean wouldn't let Meg live it down. Ever.

They watched the episode silently as they ate their burgers, and Columbo was beginning to seriously doubt what the blond guy had told him because of cigarette ashes that were apparently missing from an ash tray. When they were all done with their sandwiches, Meg collected the plates and took them to the kitchen. Dean was surprised, until she came back, and folded herself between Castiel and the arm of the couch instead of sitting on the floor next to Charlie again. She wasn't wasting any time. Castiel shifted towards him to make place for her without looking at him, and his right hip bumped into Dean's. The man didn't react at the touch while Dean tensed up; it wasn't like he could move himself or else he would smother Jo, so trying to escape Castiel was pointless and would make things awkward. So he stayed exactly where he was and tried to understand where the ashes had gone.

His focus didn't stay on the trench-coated detective very long, as he heard Meg's sigh and turned to look at her. She wasn't being compressed into the couch, quite the contrary, she had all the space in the world. Castiel had put more than five inches between her hand himself when he'd budged over. Meg caught his eyes on her and he smirked. He was still a bit uncomfortable feeling every breath Cas took, but he wasn't going to deny there was a bright side to it. She saw his amusement and winced. Dean huffed out a laugh.

Castiel slowly turned to look at him and when Dean did the same he realized their faces were only inches away from eachother now. There was a small, inexplicable smile on Cas' lips and his blue eyes were intently watching his. “What's funny,” he breathed. He rearranged his arms around his legs and their shoulders brushed.

Dean shook his head and didn't let go of his eyes, knowing there was no escaping them from that distance. “Nothing?” He hadn't meant for there to be a question mark but he heard it all the same.

Castiel's smile widened and revealed two rows of white teeth. “Why are you laughing?”

His voice had been barely more than a whisper, but Charlie picked up on it and shushed them again. Castiel looked down as his smile closed around his teeth to become a pink curve and he focused on the movie again.

The rest of the episode played in silence and soon Columbo was arresting the blond guy and the bald guy looked really surprised and betrayed, but Dean had no idea what had happened. His senses couldn't go past the sound of Castiel's breathing and the slight shift there was against his left hip every time he inspired and exhaled.

The credits started playing and Sam turned the TV off. “So? How was this rite of passage?”

“Do I really look like him?” Castiel stretched his back and rolled his head around his neck.

Jo smiled, “Not without your coat,” she reassured him.

Dean hadn't even noticed. Cas wasn't even wearing a suit, he wore a grey t-shirt that was too large for him and blue jeans. _Living is Easy with Eyes Closed_ , the shirt read in dark blue letters.

Jo got up from the couch and clapped her hands. “Well, who's up for shots?”

Charlie shot excited eyes at her, but the rest of them grunted. Castiel was silent. “I'm not drinking ever again,” Sam said. “Charlie, you've got a class early in the morning and you know it.”

“I'm driving home,” Meg drawled. “Unless someone's inviting me to share his bed?” She looked at the two boys she was sitting next to. Mainly the dark-haired one. Dean's face displayed an unimpressed rise of eyebrows. _Seriously?_

 _Watcha gonna do about it_ , her wolfish smile answered him.

Castiel turned to look at Dean as he didn't seem to think he was being asked too, clearly oblivious to the proposition.

“Nope,” Dean said smugly, “you're driving home.”

 

In the end, Meg left and offered Jo to give her a ride. Castiel bashfully said he had to get up early in the morning and Charlie walked him up to his door, trying to get as much information as she could from him. Her questions were enthusiastic and accompagnied by gestures to clarify what she was saying, and Castiel's answers were short and almost imperceptible once he'd walked out of the apartment.

Sam and Dean were alone in the living room and the silence was comfortable between them. Until Sam broke it.

“Dean.”

He looked up at his brother from the magazine he'd picked up from a table somewhere.

“Sammy.”

The gigantic man breathed in. “How long are you staying?”

Dean shrugged, “Are you getting tired of me already?”

Sam smiled and shook his head. “No, of course not, I'm glad you're here, but it's just... You've been here for a week and you don't look like you're leaving any time soon.” Dean was about to be offended and apologize for overstraining your freaking hospitality Sammy, but Sam explained himself first. “No, no, I'm not trying to kick you out. I'm just wondering, you've never stayed here more than a week before. Why now?”

Dean thought about that. It was true, he usually spent four days or so at Sam's, packed his stuff in the middle of the night and left without a note. This year was different though. This year, he didn't have to worry about people looking for him. Or at least he'd thought he didn't. That had obviously been another miscalculation; Crowley knew where he was, even if he didn't know where he was staying. But Crowley wasn't a threat. Not yet at least, and should he become one Dean could handle him long enough to disappear again, leaving no traces behind. This year, Dean had the upperhand. He didn't have to wonder, every time his head hit his pillow, if that was the night someone would murder him in his sleep. This year, Dean was out.

“I don't know man,” he shrugged again and smiled, “I haven't finished Game of Thrones yet.”

But Sam wasn't smiling anymore. He sat down on the small table facing the couch and therefore Dean, and rested his hands on his knees. He was still taller than his big brother. “Look, Dean, I just want to make sure... I mean without dad,” Dean's smile died on his face at the word, and Sam took a new breath. “When you do leave, do you have somewhere to go?”

Dean didn't answer. What could he have answered? _Yeah, of course Sammy, a different bed every night with a different woman in it. I don't know if you could call it a home but there's hot water and a microwave. Hey, now that I think about it, if that was a job, what would it be?_ Coming out as whore to his little brother was out of the question. He had his car of course, but it wasn't a home and Dean knew it, Sam had already told him. If he was being honest with himself, and even though he rarely allowed himself to be he was going to tolerate it for five minutes, he had no idea where he was going to go when he eventually left. His plans didn't go that far ahead. He didn't have the money to buy a house or even rent a place on the long term, he had no one to go to now that his dad was no longer around, and his real ID wasn't even valid anymore.

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Okay, okay. Listen.” He forced Dean to look at him before he went on. “I know you can take care of yourself, and I know that you would chew off your own arm before letting anybody help you, but Dean, you've taken care of me for as long as I can remember, probably even longer than that, so just this once, this one time, let me help you.” The big brother started shaking his head vehemently and had even opened his mouth to reply as soon as something smart to say would pop into his head, but Sam didn't give him the time to interrupt. “It's true that it's going to be complicated, majorly but not only financially, but you could talk to Bobby and maybe he'd find you something at the garage.”

“Sammy, no.”

“Dean don't –“

“I'm not gonna be a burden for you. _And_ for Charlie, she didn't ask for anything and you're talking about letting me sleep on her couch.”

Sam's voice intensified with frustration. “You think _Charlie'_ s gonna be a problem? _Charlie_ ? She's family Dean, she'd let you sleep in her _bed_ if she knew the only alternative was your car.”

“Sam you're going to college, you're gonna become a lawyer and you're gonna meet a cute lawyer girl and you're gonna get married and have lots of lawyer kids and live happily ever after, you got that? You don't need me around. You don't want me around, snoring on the couch and leaving knives around the place and bringing mud back from the garage all the time, trust me.”

There was a short silence as Sam's shoulders slumped a little and his hands fell back to his thighs. “I wouldn't be there if it wasn't for you, Dean. I'd have never made it if you hadn't been there to help me every time I needed you.”

Dean tried to dismiss his brother with a wave of his hand and a _come on_ , but Sam was having none of it.

“You were the one who called me a genius for the first time, remember? It was in fifth grade and I still remember falling asleep that night thinking I might become an astronaut if I worked hard. In seventh grade you couldn't help me much with math but you found that girl – Andrea, was it? And you brought her home and asked her to explain me how it worked. I saw you kissing her outside and she wasn't even pretty. When I was fourteen and I met Amy, and you were probably in another state trying to keep dad from hurting himself, you still picked up the phone and taught me how to talk to a girl. And when I had my Stanford interview and dad had disappeared and I called you on the phone, and I was completely freaking out because I thought I was going to miss it, you actually showed up with a stolen car an hour later and you sang to Queen during the whole drive there.”

Sam was smiling again, and his eyes were almost red. Dean was thinking about Andrea. He did remember her. And Amy, the first time Sam had told him about a girl and he hadn't even been there to make sure she was good enough for him. He'd returned the car he'd stolen for Stanford, with a note on it, saying _When my brother becomes a lawyer I'll give you my name and number so you can sue me._

“So maybe you didn't help like a normal big brother would have, had we been a normal family, but in the conditions we were raised in, I don't know if anyone could have done better. The mess you pulled me out of... You have no idea how grateful I am for everything you've done for me, and no matter what I do I'll never be able to repay you for that.”

Dean looked at his kid brother and his eyes that were the same green than his, and smiled faintly for a second, before he shut his face completely. “If you cry on me I will punch you.”

Sam huffed out a laugh and looked up to the ceiling to throw his manly tears back in. “If I hug you am I putting myself in danger?”

Dean got up and offered his hand to Sammy, who let him pull him up. “Come here.”

Huge arms tightened around his neck and hair invaded his face. “Are you gonna stay?”

There was a short silence. “I will for now.”

 


	6. I'm above pianos and doors.

Everything was a different shade of blue in the light of the moon. Dean was a grey blue, dark against the pure pastel blue of his blanket that would turn white again in the morning.

He'd been laying for some time, he didn't know how long exactly. It could have been minutes, or hours. Sometimes sleep refused to come to him and he was left alone with the silence. Time usually left too in these occasions, and he was led far astray from reality, like he imagined people who ran aground on deserted islands lost track of the days and the weeks that went by.

Dean knows the shade of every blue that takes over the fading yellow of the ceiling at night by the time he decides he's had enough of listening to himself think. He puts on the pants he left in the bathroom, grabs his jacket, and he's out.

It's chilling outside and he shoves his hands in his pockets and gathers his shoulders around his neck. He should own a scarf. He probably never will. He gets into his car and waits before he gets it started. Where is he going? _A bar_ , his mind supplies immediately. _Where else?_

Maybe it's time. He knows he'll have to go at some point, whatever happens, so why not right now? It's just as good a time as ever. More than that, it's the perfect time; it must be around 3am so it won't be too crowded but he won't be alone either; people there, including her, will have started to tire; and Jo won't be there, which is a rare occurrence. Yes, he should go now and be done with it.

He drives off and he is going. He has made up his mind. He doesn't know why he knows he'd have had to go sooner or later, he just does. So he drives through the night and soon the air in his car becomes warmer and he is comfortable. It doesn't last long. He parks and thinks this over one last time. He's being childish, and that thought is enough to push him out of his car and into the night again.

He pushes the door open and smiles because she's been promising she was going to fix this for years. In public buildings, the doors must be pulled at entrance and pushed when you exit, it's a matter of security. In case of fire, people will rush out of the building. If they can push the doors to get out, they will open naturally with the scramble; if people need to pull the doors open, then they stand as an obstacle, and chaos will ensue. The doors of the Roadhouse are bound to cause chaos.

He's barely set a foot inside the bar when she spots him. She's probably been expecting this for a few days, eversince Sam told her his big brother was staying at his. Dean has been expecting anger, worry, he's even had dreams about her kicking his ass out of her bar or shooting at him on sight. However, none of this is playing on her face when she sees him, a dishcloth in her hand.

When she says his name, it's almost a sigh of weariness.

“Hi Ellen.”

 

 

“What do you think you're doing here?”

Ellen wasn't even trying to hide the fact that she was pissed. She hadn't shot him nor thrown a glass at his face, but he owed that to the three customers drinking at the bar and playing poker. Hadn't they been here, Dean would probably be dead, or at least missing two fingers and an eye.

But no, Dean was still in one piece, under Ellen's judgemental glare.

“I'm fine,” he answered, “thanks for asking.”

She wasn't amused. “I don't have time for this, kid. What are you doing here?”

Dean's smile faded a bit and he sat down on a stool. “I've thought about coming here every single year you know? I just... I guess I didn't want to take the risk as long as I was still – well, you know.”

“Oh yeah that's right –” She'd spoken a bit loud and the man sipping from what appeared to be Jack Daniels turned towards them with curious eyes. Ellen sighed and leaned on the counter to get closer to Dean. “I heard about how you crawled your way out boy,” she whispered, “and let me tell you, it didn't end there and you're a fool if you think –”

A chair was flipped behind Dean's back. “Cheater!” a man with a dark beard accused. “You're nothing but a cheater, I want my money back.”

“Liar,” the other countered gravely. “If you can't play the cards, then don't play the cards.”

It looked like the beginning of a fight and the so-called cheater was about to throw himself at the other's throat when Ellen intervened. “You two, take this outside.”

They both turned to her with mad eyes. You could almost see the drool dripping from their mouths. “You stay out of this, woman.”

Dean winced and tried to warn the man who'd spoken by mimicking a knife slitting his own throat with his thumb. It wasn't going to end well for either of these guys.

A chill ran up Dean's spine when he heard a rifle being adjusted behind him. After that, things happened too fast for anyone to be clear about it. Dean found himself pointing his gun at Ellen. She was now aiming her shotgun at the two men, who had frozen on the spot.

Dean's face of concentration dropped and he released the breath he was used to find out he'd been holding. He lowered his gun under Ellen's scrutiny and his eyes followed his aim.

“Well go,” she ordered the two drunkards who were still standing there. “You too,” she added, looking at the third man who hadn't flinched and was peacefully finishing his drink.

He put his glass down and sighed, “God bless America.”

When it was just the two of them left in the Roadhouse, Ellen hid the rifle behind the bar again, and poured them a drink while Dean felt his face grow pale and his fingers grow cold. It wasn't shame, it was disgust.

“You look surprised,” she commented, sliding his drink towards him.

He took it and drank. “I'm sorry Ellen.”

“For me?” She shook her head and threw all of the limpid liquid down her throat. “Don't be sorry for me kid, be sorry for yourself.” Dean was silent. “What was it exactly you were expecting? With the way you dragged your own ass out... you're lucky to be alive.”

“Not lucky,” he replied hurriedly, “I was just careful enough.”

She laughed. When she did so, she threw her head back and the sound was deep and irritating to Dean's ear. It was mocking and patronizing and obnoxious. But in a tiny part of his brain, a voice struggling to be heard was whispering that she was right, and he wanted it to stop. He looked at her throat, and all the ways he knew how to strangle a person floated in his mind. He pushed them away with his drink.

“Kid, if you call this careful... Jesus. Hasn't any of them sent men to find you yet?”

 _A woman_ , his mind provided. “No,” he answered, “I told everyone I was out. I think I made myself quite clear.” He finished his drink and put a five dollar bill on the counter. “I should go.”

He'd almost reached the door when Ellen called after him. “Kid, don't hang around too long. Whether they track you or not, you're not much better than the guy they'd send yourself. I don't want you around Jo. Just because you got out of it, doesn't mean it got out of you. Or that it ever will.”

He looked at her silently for a moment, and pushed the d– right; pulled the door open.

He couldn't go back to Sam's, not with the white rage that was flowing in his veins and threatening to burst out. He would have gladly stayed on his own, and waited until the pictures of tanned fingers against pale necks disappeared completely, but that meant sleeping in his car and he couldn't lose consciousness in a place that exposed. He couldn't say he liked it, but he had one place to go.

 

“Hey, it's Dean.”

“ _Dean... I swear to God... What time is it?”_

He'd woken her up. But then it _was_ three in the morning and it was just normal for Anna to be asleep at that time.

“Um, late. Or early, I guess that depends.”

“ _It really can't wait until tomor–day? Later?”_

“Yeah, afraid not. Remember when you offered me to crash at yours? I know you probably meant to say I should let you know before eleven pm but you didn't, so... can I crash at yours for the night?”

“ _... Yes, yes, okay. Just... yeah. I'll text you the address. When are you coming?”_

“You're awesome. Well that depends on how far you are but I think I'll get going as soon as I get your text.”

“ _Great. Call me when you get there. Do you need to eat?”_

He smiled, that woman was golden. “No it's okay, go back to sleep.”

“ _Okay see you.”_

“See you Anna.”

“ _Oh and Dean?”_

“Yeah?”

“ _Next time, let me know before evelen pm.”_

“... Sure.”

 

When Dean arrived at the address Anna had texted him, he found her wrapped in a white robe her slender arms were holding tight around her chest. He parked his Baby and got out of it.

“What are you doing outside? Aren't your legs freezing?”

“It's a hotel Dean, not a house, there's no one to let you in at that time.”

“Oh, right.”

 

Under the white light of her room, Dean could see the bags under her eyes and how pale her skin was. She was exhausted. “I'm sorry for waking you up,” he apologized once again. “I just didn't know where else to go.”

She was leaning against the frame of the door leading to the bathroom, as if she couldn't even carry her own weight. “It's okay Dean. Make yourself comfortable, I'm going back to sleep.” She walked her longs ivory legs to her bed and laid down. She pulled the covers over her body as he watched. “We'll talk in the morning. If you're still here.”

She turned off the light and he nodded into the night. He took off all the layers of clothing he didn't need, the friction of textile against his skin deafening in the silence of the room, and rested his body on the couch. It wasn't really comfortable, it was too small and he had to bend both his knees and his neck, so he kept fidgeting. Dean thought of all the couches he'd been sleeping on and this one was by far the worst. It was too rigid and so tiny his right limbs were threatening to fall off every second.

“Dean,” Anna called out of the blue, “just come here already,” she sighed. He stayed still for a moment, a foot starting to get cold outside the shield of covers, trying to figure out whether she'd actually spoken or he was hearing voices. He knew when she repeated herself. “Just do it before I change my mind.”

He pulled the blanket off his body and slowly reached her bed, where he laid down, trying not to disturb her balance on the mattress. He wasn't certain how far he was allowed to go but it wasn't a king size bed so he nudged closer to her and slid a feather-light arm around her waist. He waited for her to peel it off but she never did. Instead, she intertwined their fingers, and they fell asleep soon after that.

 

When Dean woke up, his nose felt warm. It was buried under long red hair that smelled like the rain he could hear, beating against the windows. He couldn't feel his right arm, it was bent at the elbow underneath his pillow. He could feel something faintly knocking on his left forearm; as regular as a metronome, light as if soft-pedaled. A heartbeat. He tried to move his right arm to get the blood pumping again but it didn't respond, so he moved his left one instead and heard an exhale.

“Good morning,” Anna said, almost sadly.

“Hey.” He felt his vocal chords vibrate with the rawness of his voice. As his lips moved slightly, they brushed the skin that was hidden underneath the hair. “How long have you been awake?” His arm tightened around her mechanically.

“Couple hours.” Her voice was soft. Everything about her was soft, from the hair that caressed his face to the skin the tips of his fingers had found and her warmth that was surrounding him.

“What time is it?” His voice was so hoarse. He felt like he'd been sleeping for days, and yet he was ready to fall back into unconsciousness if she just let him pull her a little bit closer.

“I don't know, the clock is on your side.”

He smiled and gently pushed the hair away with his nose until his lips found a nape. “How long were you going to wait for me to wake up? Don't you have somewhere to be?” His words were just air against her epidermis.

“You seemed like you could use the rest.”

He hmmed and felt the vibrations from the top of his head to his low abdomen. He parted his lips and let the bottom one fondle her skin until it closed around a kiss. Slowly, she turned around under his arm and he opened one eye to look into hers. They were... maybe three inches away? Their noses were touching.

“Dean.” Her tone was serious and yet so light. He let both his eyes open fully and almost felt his pupils shrink with the light. Hers were wide and her stare was focused. “I think this is a bad idea.”

He grined. They'd been through this so many times and yet she insisted on expressing her doubts every single year. “Is it though?” He kept the green lava of his eyes on the discolored ice in hers and extended his pulpy pink lips to the corner of her faded orange mouth.

She pursed her lips into a tight line. The pink of Dean's lips was spreading to her cheeks and she instantly looked more alive. “I really think it is.”

“I guess we should stop then, shouldn't we?” He rolled on top of her and his right arm started tingling. She just let him, portable and pliant under his hands.

“It would probably be wiser.” Her throat was tight around the words as Dean's mouth explored the neck she then extended for him.

“Definitely,” he mouthed between two kisses. His hands slid along the nightgown she was wearing until they reached the end of it and he brought them back up, his dry palms tracing her thighs, and hips.

“Dean, please,” she susurrated. Her hands came resting on his shoulders and his whole body was disappearing under the covers.

“Please what?” She heard in a low voice, muffled by the duvet, as she felt a tongue exploring her navel. Dean felt her stomach harden and her legs spread under his weight. The only answer he got was a ceding sigh. He smiled against the skin that marked then end of her hip and the beginning of her thigh. “Let me take care of you.” He wasn't sure whether the chill that made her body writhe was because of his words, or the hot blows of air every one of them sent between her legs.

She let him caress every inch of her he could reach with his fingers, nose and lips. When he came back to kiss her and his tongue was flavoured with her own sent, she slithered an arm around his neck and only parted from his face to whimper and look into his eyes as he gently ravished her.

 

________________________________________

 

 

“Are you coming back?”

Dean stopped pulling his pants up his legs for the fraction of a second, and then resumed getting dressed as he avoided her eyes. “No,” he stated before she could get her hopes up too much. “Sam's probably wondering where I am, and I'm supposed to work a bit this afternoon.”

“Oh.” He might have succesfully escaped the disappointment in her stare, but wasn't deaf to it. “Work? Since when do – ” she interrupted herself. “Where are you working?”

He grined at the unpronounced words and answered. “Local garage, the boss is a family friend and he's letting me fix some cars for a few bucks.”

“That's nice of him,” she breathed.

“Yeah.” He slid in his jacket and picked up his car keys. “Well, I better go before his lawyer's ass sends the cops looking for me.”

“Of course.” She walked him to the door and leaned against the door frame while he looked at her without the faintest idea of what to say.

“Well, I'm busy today but I'll call you later.”

“No you won't,” she smiled weakly. “I don't know if you're lying to me or to yourself but please stop it.”

His face decomposed, and he nodded as he seemed to grow paler, after which she closed the door, and he left.

 

________________________________________

 

 

“Where were you?”

Sam didn't look too worried. He'd had no proper reason to be of course, it wasn't like Dean couldn't take care of himself for a whole year without him, let alone twelve hours. No, Sam looked surprised, and relieved, in a way.

“Couldn't sleep last night,” Dean answered. “I went out.”

Sam smiled and frowned, partly suspicious partly incredulous. “You went out? What did you do?”

“I drank a lot of alcohol, refilled my stash of heroin and hired a prostitute. Why, is there a problem mother?” Dean's smug grin died on his face when Sam didn't even snort. “What,” he said more seriously, freezing in the middle of untying his shoes.

Sam shook his head disbelievingly. “Dean, I...” he shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. “Never mind.” He turned his back on his brother and started walking towards the kitchen, but he stopped halfway there and came back. “Couldn't you have left a note? Are you allergic to letting people know you're safe or something?”

“Safe?”

“Yes, Dean, safe.” Sam took a breath and rearranged his hair again. The kid was so melodramatic. “I thought you'd left for good.”

 _Oh._ Dean was taken aback for a second, but he quickly let go of his shoe and focused fully on the matter. “Sam, I told you I was gonna stay.”

“Like that would stop you.”

Dean sat back in the couch he'd heavily fallen on as soon as he'd entered the apartment. “Sam, what's going on?”

“Dean, what's going on is that you're a jerk. Leaving in the middle of the night without even bothering to check your phone, what was I supposed to think?” Dean opened his mouth but to his own surprise, nothing came out. He looked down as his brow furrowed. “You know what, it doesn't matter. You're here, so I don't have to hunt you down to kick your ass. I've got a management class I'm already late for.” He disappeared into his room and came back with a backpack. He opened the door, and before it closed behind him, he remembered. “Charlie made pancakes for you, they're in the fridge.”

The door closed and Dean finished taking his shoes off. He went to shower and then retrieved his pancakes from the fridge. As he ate, he heard a piano playing. _At last_ , he thought. He'd heard about the guy before he'd even seen his brother on the day he'd arrived, and yet it was the first time he could hear him play. Dean didn't know much about the piano. He knew a couple of things about guitars and drums, but he knew no famous pianists as he didn't listen to neither jazz nor classical music. He _could_ however say for certain that that guy sucked at it. The notes seemed to be damaging things within his ear. There was no constant rhythm, no pattern, nothing but chaos. It was torture. He tried not to listen to what he heard for five minutes but the noise wasn't going away. It would soon be agony.

Dean sighed around his breakfast and prepared for a battle. As long as he, Dean Winchester, classic rock lover, was staying here, this massacre would not do. He wiped his mouth and shoved all the food he hadn't had time to eat before the auditory storm had hit back into the fridge. He walked out of the apartment and followed the dissonant chords up to a black door, on which he knocked. The not-music stopped and he heard a masculine voice call out.

“Who is it?”

“A person with eardrums,” he yelled back. “Look man, I don't mean to be rude or anything but maybe you could just watch some porn instead. With headphones on. As silently as possible.”

He heard footsteps coming towards him and soon the door opened. A dangerously skinny-looking guy with a nose bigger than his chin faced him. “That's not cool,” he said with an exaggeratedly hurt expression.

Dean huffed out a laugh. “I'll tell you what's not cool, neurosis, deafness, that's not cool. Doing a favor to everyone living in this building, that's cool.”

The guy looked actually pained. “But no one has ever complained before.”

Dean raised his eyebrows in astonishment. On one hand, he really wanted – no, needed the noise to stop. On the other... the guy looked like a kid. He was probably younger than Sam. Dean was telling a kid he sucked. He ran a hand through his hair and stopped midway there. Sam had been doing the exact same thing five minutes ago. He smiled, no matter how they'd been raised in different worlds, a Winchester was a Winchester.

“You know what,” he shrugged slightly, “maybe you could use the pedal that... soft-pedals the thing?”

The guy smiled brightly and nodded. “Sure,” he said with the corners of his mouth up to his ears, “that's alright.” He then proceded to open the door fully and extended his arms towards Dean's neck.

“Woah,” he said, taking a step back. “What do you think you're doing?”

The kid followed him in his remoteness and motioned him to come closer with his hands. “That's my version of a handshake,” he replied. Dean was rigid while the skinny arms closed around his ribcage. “I'm Garth Fitzgerald, fourth of the name.”

What was the problem with people's names in this building? He waited for the disproportionate head to leave his shoulders and stuttered, “Um, Dean.”

“Thanks, Dean, I'll use the pedal now.”

“You're... welcome?”

The kid nodded and disappeared behind the black door. What was the problem with people in this building, period. He walked back to his door and pulled the doorknob. It refused to open. The realisation hit him suddenly. Of course. The door locked itself automatically. Well, shit. He muffled a curse under his breath and gathered his motivation to head down the stairs and to the parking lot, where he sighed before starting to climb the giant tree that grew next to the balconies.

He got to the second floor and wiped his hands on his pants. He walked past the windows, and had almost reached the right one, when he heard a familiar voice emanating from one of the apartments.

“Do you really consider yourself above the concept of doors?” Dean turned around, and there was Castiel, with his blue eyes, his dark hair, and his face covered in gray. “That's such a hard life you must be leading.”


	7. Most people are overrated.

 “Do you actually just sit by your window all day, waiting for me to break in again?”

Dean had no idea where that had come from. There was something about Castiel, something that instantly put some sarcastic and dangerously flirty part of his brain in charge of writing his dialogues.

Castiel was leaning on the ledge of his window, arms crossed against it, his head out of his apartment and turned towards Dean. “Well, I was mostly sitting there because it's the spot where I get the most light from the Sun, which is convenient when one is attempting to draw something other than abstract forms, but yeah, that too.”

A small smile was playing on his lips. In the daylight, Castiel was a study in contrasts. The pink of his lips clashed with the blue of his eyes, and his hair, with its clearly brown reflects that proved he was not as dark-haired as he usually seemed, made his skin look a bit paler than Dean remembered. The gray stains on his chin and forehead just made the picture more complicated.

Dean felt like he was trapped inside his own mind, and it was as if a stranger had taken control of his body when he heard himself speak. “What are you drawing?”

 _Seriously_. Out of all the things he could have pointed out or asked, and all the excuses he could have mumbled to get the hell out of here, this is what'd come out? He could have strategically fleed or reminded Castiel of his overwhelming heterosexuality, but no, yeah, sure, _let's go for the option that will obviously encourage him to invite you to come inside. Great thinking, you useless son of a bitch_. He scolded the asshole who'd been in command of this one and focused on letting nothing of his internal dispute show on his face.

“Nothing satisfying,” Castiel answered on a more serious note. “I must be distracted. Or tired, possibly.”

 _Do not ask him if he's having trouble sleeping_ , he warned his tongue. _Don't you dare ask him_ _th –_

Castiel didn't leave Dean's tongue enough time to betray him though. “So whose apartment are you breaking into today?”

“My brother's,” he said quickly. “I've lost my key and the doors lock automatically in here so...”

“You left your place with no shoes on?” He was, as far as Dean could tell, hesitating between finding it funny or weird. He would probably settle on both.

He looked down at his feet and yes, indeed, he couldn't see anything but socks. “I didn't _leave_ ,” he tried to explain. “But you remember when you talked about that pianist guy? On the day I – miscalculated?” Castiel nodded, bright teeth threatening to appear behind his smile. “Well, you kinda forgot to mention he was a novice. He kinda sucks, really. So I just went to tell him, since no one ever has or would... you're welcome, by the way.”

The blue eyes widened. “You told Garth his playing was disagreeable to the ear?” He looked disbelieving.

Dean chuckled at the phrasing. “Um, yeah.”

Castiel frowned and wrinkled his eyes – it was difficult to tell why but it was very distinct from his squinting habit, he seemed more shocked than confused. “What sort of grinch are you? He is still so young and hopeful.”

Dean didn't like the look of disappointment and horror on his face. “More like annoying and naive.” Hm, no; that did not make things any better, although amusement was slowly taking over the mortified expression he was faced with. “I didn't even tell him to shut it in the end, we just agreed he should use the pedal thing.”

“You are lucky he is so calm in the face of criticism,” he stated with a grin he was trying to bite back. “I do not believe it justifies your behavior anyhow.”

Dean had absolutely no control over the way he was letting himself fall into step with Castiel's humorous flirting. After all the years he'd spent perfecting his smart-ass replies and automatic seductive attitude whenever a woman was trying to allure him, he was most-likely just conditioned. It was a pavlovian response. “How will I ever redeem myself to you?”

Castiel looked up at him with a new glimmer in his eyes, and _no, he wasn't going to_ g – “I'm sure you'll find something.”

Dean stood there silently. He had reached the line. It was an important line. When he was on a date, it was the line between fooling around to test a woman's intentions and actually initiate the _let's go to your place_ program. The thing was, Castiel's place was five feet away from him. Technically, Castiel was still inside Castiel's place. Ironically flirting was one thing, but crossing that line was a completely different one. Crossing that line was a promise, a hope, a tacit agreement. The thing was, Dean didn't know how not to cross that line. He'd raised himself to become the best at crossing that line, it'd become his natural behavior.

He had to step away from that line, so he stepped away from Castiel, arm reaching back to find the window with his hands. He opened his mouth to excuse himself but Castiel was faster than him. “You know this window is bullet proof, right? No way you're getting through that.”

Dean froze. “What?” Bullet proof windows in a building with no lights in the halls? _Right_.

“This building used to belong to our police force,” he explained with a fake apologetic look. “We have thin walls and weird neighboors,” he smiled, “but we're safe from people trying to kill us at night. Or you know,” he said and shrugged, “exploiting unused comfortable surfaces in our homes.”

“That only works if the window is closed though,” Dean remarked and Castiel chuckled. “I'm sure you've noticed most people shut theirs at night. Especially in April.”

“Most people are overrated.”

“Most people won't die of pneumonia this year.”

“Most people have never found you on their couch.”

The Earth stopped turning for a short eternity. The wind held leaves still, all noises melted into silence. Dean was pretty sure the world was holding its breath. It released it when Castiel went on.

“I win.”

His voice was almost hesitant as he thought maybe he'd gone too far, but the speed with which he'd spoken suggested that that had never been part of his brilliant plan. He looked like he was about to mumble an apology, his throat almost red with the strangely-situated blush, when Dean spontaineously interrupted him midway. “I'm not gay.” He heard his own words a second after he'd said them and looked down at himself in confusion, marvelling at how varied his responses to awkward moments could get.

Castiel's eyes were slightly wider and lightened up with a smile that had yet to reach his lips. Dean could still hear it in his voice. “Am I going through deja-vu or are you being redundant?”

Dean looked up at him. He couldn't see any disappointment there; surprise, maybe; amusement, certainly, but not an ounce of deception. “I only date women.” Perhaps if he made it clearer, Castiel's brain would grasp the concept of heterosexuality and send him away. Didn't look like it though. Castiel was in balance between the joy of having broken the stranger Dean was to him's ability to think and speak coherently, and a hint of irritation.

“Could you rephrase that again? Just to make sure I get the idea.”

Dean's brain wasn't well enough to find a sarcastic reply so he went for the literal one, “I don't date men.”

“Me neither.” Dean frowned interiorly. Did he really think he was gonna buy that one? “I've never dated a male individual in my life,” he insisted. “Not one. So I guess we're on the same page now aren't we?” Dean squinted, and then felt a number of different expressions travel on his face, coming and going too quickly for most of them to be identified or even registered, and then his face relaxed and he nodded. “So, now that we've made that clear, do you want to knowingly come inside, or would you rather stay outside with no shoes on until your monstrously tall brother comes home?”

This was a bad idea for so many reasons. Dean's mind was good at enumerating reasons why half of his life had been a succession of bad ideas. Reason number one: he didn't have his gun and he was feeling naked. Reason number two: he'd have to explain that one to Sam, or worse, Charlie. Reason number three: all of that would be awkward. However, another thing his mind was good at was ignoring the said reasons, and finding good excuses to do something stupid or reckless. Both. Counter-argument number one: he wasn't using his gun on Cas anyway, and the windows were bullet proof, so it was fair to say that they'd be out of danger for a few hours. Counter-argument number two: if he just sat next to the door and waited for someone with a key to open it for him, he'd have to explain why just as well, plus he'd be even more ridiculous waiting on his own. Counter-argument number three: he'd probably get to see some drawings, and maybe even what was on the canvas he'd seen the last time he'd been inside Castiel's apartment. Counter-argument number four: he was an idiot anyway, and he'd made up his mind.

It was apparently written all over his face, for the blue-eyed man was already smiling like he'd won a battle when Dean told him it was okay with him.


	8. The only place you take off your shoes is home.

 

The place hadn't changed at all since the last time he'd seen it. A thick layer of papers was still covering everything. Some had even found their way onto the couch this time, and he wondered how long Castiel had fought the urge to leave something laying around there, just in case Dean decided (or didn't) to get it wrong again.

“What time is it?” Dean heard from somewhere behind him. “I lose track of time when I'm drawing.”

“What _were_ you drawing,” he asked again as he fished for his phone. He tried to bring it to life, but the battery was dead. “I don't know, my phone is dead. Don't you own a watch, or something?”

He heard Castiel's footsteps coming back from the room with no door, and turned around to look at him. “My clock is broken, I don't have a phone. Or any electronic device that indicates the time of day in any accurate way, for that matter.”

“Oh,” Dean let out. He was in the apartment of a man he barely even knew, who was undeniably expressing interest towards him, and currently covered in gray stains left by carbon. The place looked abandoned, or inhabited by a madman doing strange research night and day, and Dean could see the green leaves entering the mysterious room from where he was standing. On top of that, it appeared time didn't properly exist. It was a weird world within these walls. “If you really need to know, I'm guessing we're somewhere between noon and 2pm.”

“Oh, no, I don't,” Castiel shook his head and shrugged, “I'm just trying to figure out whether not I need to eat. I tend to forget about that too. Are you hungry?” Did Dean really need to think about that one? He was a man. Men were hungry, regardless of time or location. As he tried to look as his forehead in case a prepared answer was written on it, Castiel chuckled. “Right. Well... I would be lying if I told you I was a great cook, and lying is a felony; so I have to admit that my cooking skills are limited, but I have never poisened anyone so far.”

Dean smiled weakly, searching Cas' face for something. “Why are you doing this?”

The man was ever so slightly taken aback by the question. He'd already started moving towards his kitchen, and he didn't stop, his playful expression resurfacing almost as soon as it had dissolved. “Because even though it is an uncommon situation, you are still a guest, and it would be rude to have you watch me eat when you are starving yourself.”

Dean followed him to the kitchenette with blue walls and dark furniture, where he hesitantly sat on a stool, and dropped the subject.

One of Castiel's hands rested on his hip, and the other one went to ruffle his hair as he looked at his cupboards. “Um... pasta? Pasta's good, right? Pasta's always good.” He turned to Dean with questioning eyes, and Dean nodded, trying to be as silent as possible. “Pasta it is then.” He got on his toes to reach the top shelf of one of the cupboards, revealing some tan skin, partially hidden underneath his shirt, as he extended his back.

He got some water boiling and 'cooked' – and Dean insisted on using quotation marks, even in his head – without looking at Dean once, intently focused on the bubbles that were starting to appear in the pan, as if he could actually screw up pasta. His elbows were on the counter, his chin resting on his right palm, his fingers drumming a regular rhythm on his jaw. His legs were crossed, and one of his feet was beating the same rhythm on his other foot.

Dean concluded he had six to nine minutes on his own, and he turned his head to look at the canvas through the hole in the wall, which he could see better from where he was now sitting. The angle of the easel wasn't ideal, and it took him at least ten seconds to realize it it'd been covered with a white sheet. He winced a little and let out a soft frustrated sigh, before turning back to the kitchen, only to find Castiel leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, a teasing smile on his face. “Prying are we?”

“No,” Dean defended himself immediately. Taking care of his own business was a lesson he'd learnt before he could fire a gun, and he reprimanded himself for forgetting about it. “I just saw the canvas the other day, just... gray lines. You still haven't told me what you were drawing.”

There seemed to be only two ways Castiel coud be around him. He could either completely ignore Dean's very existence, just like he had fifteen seconds ago, or when he'd been concentrating on Columbo as if the world depended on it; or he could pretend all of the universe had suddenly turned into a dark void, and Dean was the only thing, in all of Creation, that was worth laying his eyes on. Dean couldn't decide which one he was the most uncomfortable with yet.

“I don't usually let people see anything unfinished. Except under extremely rare circumstances, of course,” he said looking at the floor, before blinking to raise his gaze again. “I don't usually let people see anything period, to be exact.”

“I thought you said you sold stuff to Anna. You do know it's unlikely she's just keeping them hidden in an attic, right?”

“People from another state whom I will never meet and don't even have any idea what color my eyes are don't count,” he breathed.

Dean nodded understandingly. “What about Anna?”

Castiel's smile widened and revealed white teeth. “It was a real problem you know,” he said as he started stirring the boiling water, which Dean knew was perfectly useless, but he let him break their eye-contact with a relieved exhale himself. “I don't even know how she convinced me to sell anything in the first place. But we found a way that works for me, there is a warehouse not too far away from here where she keeps all the paintings she collects. She usually goes to people's houses and pick up the paintings herself, but she lets me drive mine there myself. That way I rarely even see her. I don't know if she looks at them. It keeps me awake at night sometimes,” he confessed with a pathetic huffed out laugh. “But it works.”

“Is that what you do for a living then?”

Castiel put an end to the circles he was drawing with his spatula, delicately put it down on the counter, and resumed his leaning position, crossing his arms once again. “No,” he almost chuckled with his eyes closed. “The money I make with these things is hardly enough to pay for the material I need to make them.” He opened his eyes and looked at Dean from underneath his dark lashes. He was good, Dean had to give him that. Maybe not as good as him, but undeniably better than the idiots who dared to compete with his green eyes in bars. “I'm a translator.”

“I thought you couldn't _speak_ Russian,” Dean countered, frowning.

Castiel raised his eyebrows, in all likelihood in an attempt to suggest something, but if that was the case, Dean didn't get it. He abandoned quickly and shook his head. “I'm not a live translator, I translate books. Not only Russian ones, I might add.”

“How many languages do you speak,” Dean asked with wrinkled eyes. “Does Sam know about this? He's always boasting about his Spannish and the three French words he can barely even pronounce.”

“Well I don't speak Spannish,” Castiel replied apologetically, with an almost undiscernable blush on his cheeks. “But I do speak French,” his eyes lit up as he continued. “Other than that, it's all strange European languages nobody knows about. But it's an advantage, America doesn't have that many Lithuanian translators.”

“Don't let Meg hear about that,” he warned him playfully.

He wasn't completely certain the confused look on Castiel's face was a manufactured one. “Why not,” he asked gravely.

Dean forced a huffed laugh out of his chest, but soon realized Castiel's question hadn't been a deadpan when the bewildered expression didn't leave the blue-eyed face alone. “You get that she's interested in you, right?”

An almost wolfish smile then appeared on Castiel's face, and Dean would have argued it was out of character, if he hadn't only just met the man, and the grin didn't suit his features so well. “Is she?”

“Are we talking about the same girl,” Dean asked incredulously. “The one with the dark hair and suave voice that would have sat in your lap if you'd so much as smiled at her?”

“Alright,” Castiel replied, amused eyes still on Dean. “So why is that a bad thing?”

“I didn't say it was a bad thing.”

“Your tone suggested it was.”

“It didn't.”

“It really did.”

“Well it's not,” Dean said harshly. Castiel looked like he was jubilating inside, while Dean felt an inexplicable anger reaching his fingers. He let it out with a breath. “It's not a bad thing. It's just, you know, you shouldn't encourage her if you're –”

“If I'm what?”

“Well,” Dean felt heat at the tips of his ears, “if you aren't... feeling the same... infatuation, towards her.”

“ _Infatuation?_ ”

“Well it _is_ the right word,” he was in his defensive mode again. “I mean she doesn't even know you and she's already imagining what seven minutes alone with you would be like.”

“That is nefarious,” Castiel deadpanned, obviously this time. “What kind of twisted miscreant would do that?” His voice had dropped ever lower than usual.

There was that line again. Dean had heard somewhere that near a black hole, time slowed. Inside a black hole, time stopped altogether. “Stop trying to be funny, you're going to sprain something.”

Castiel laughed. His chest bounced on his hips, and the sound was deep and reverberated against his throat, escaping through the cracks between his teeth; and all that time, his eyes didn't leave Dean's face. “Here's what we should do: you stop wondering when I'm going to jump you, and I stop acting like I've got any sense of humor.”

“Are you saying you aren't gonna jump me?”

“Definitely not, I'm just trying to preserve the element of surprise.”

It was Dean who chuckled this time, until his eyes fell on the pan, where white foam was falling on the fire. “Woah, I think you managed to screw up pasta.”

“Damn,” Castiel mildly swore.

“Pretty impressive if you ask me.”

Cas turned off the fire and threw the pasta in the strainer in the sink. “Um, it might be a bit... flabby,” he stated. “But edible,” he tried to sound reassuring. “Definitely edible.”

 

They ate pasta silently, as Dean looked around himself, at the abstract painting he'd seen the first time he'd been here, the papers he now understood were translated pages from North European novels, written in alphabets he'd never encountered before; and Castiel looked at Dean, and tried to follow his gaze and guess the conclusions he was drawing from his surroundings. They were still in the kitchen, as there was no flat surface on which they could sit without potentially ruining weeks of hard work on a Norwegian story. Castiel was sitting on the counter he'd been leaning on, his bowl held close to his face, and Dean hadn't moved from his seat, which meant however hard he tried, he had to glance at the white sheet every now and then, to make sure it hadn't partially uncovered what was lying underneath, something he could peek at.

“Are you a drawer?”

Castiel's voice had come out of nowhere, and Dean jumped. “Sorry?”

Castiel shrugged and motioned towards the easel with his head. “You seem really fascinated by that room. People who do that are usually drawers themselves. Eager to compare.”

Dean shook his head, his mouth full of almost liquid pasta and tomato sauce. “No. I mean, I used to scribble some stuff when I was a kid, like everyone, but um... no. Charlie's quite good though, I guess I became interested because of her.”

That was a lie. Dean had first become interested in art when he must have been eight or nine, and he'd met that asian kid who could draw with his eyes closed. He didn't even remember his name, just the way his hands flew over the paper, drawing lines and lines that didn't make any sense at first, but, slowly, as he connected them together and added spots and colors and shapes, turned into faces, people, castles, towns, whole maps. He'd started to learn with the boy, but soon enough he'd had to move again, and all he had left was a vague idea of what his face had looked like, without even a name to put on it. He wasn't sure why he'd lied to Castiel. He wasn't ashamed of it, it wasn't really a painful memory, maybe a source of regret, but not a painful one. His mouth had just lied, as if it was automatic for him.

He was pulled out of that corner of his mind. “Is she part of your family?”

“Who,” he said, discarding his bowl. “Charlie? No,” he huffed out a laugh. “Well, I guess that depends on what you call family. We're not related, she's just Sam's roommate.”

“You love her.”

Dean sat back and made sure his shoulders were square. “Um, yeah, I mean, she's uh, not like that. Between us. At all. I'm not – she's gay.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows and put his spoon back into his bowl, before collecting Dean's too and putting them both in the sink. “I didn't mean to imply there was anything of a romantic nature between you two, I think it is pretty clear from your respective behaviors there isn't. But you do care about her, almost as much as your brother.”

The man's peculiar phrasing made Dean uncomfortable again, like he was being analysed somehow. The contents of his sentences didn't make things much better either.

“So how long are you staying here,” he asked as he turned on the water and started washing.

“Are you going to beg me to stay too,” he asked humorously, eyes lightly resting on Castiel's back. The look the man gave him, head crooked and eyebrows wrinkling the lines of his forehead, _do you really want an answer to that_ , forced a real answer out of him. “I don't know.”

“What do you do for a living?”

Dean stayed mute until Castiel turned to him once again with questioning eyes. “Is this an interrogation?”

He smiled faintly. “We can appreciate the almost silence if you prefer, but I'm sure you'll find it way more uneasy.”

Dean crooked his head in a _fair enough_ manner and answered his question. “I'm a mechanic.” Seeing how quickly Castiel's jaw reacted, he knew the man had an endless source of questions hidden somewhere, so he didn't give him enough time to pick another. “What were you drawing? If you won't show me then tell me.” He got no reaction whatsoever, maybe a nose sigh and an imperceptible shake of Castiel's dark hair, but otherwise nothing. “Come on. You cleverly infiltrated my brother's home, you owe me that.”

“Cleverly infiltrated? Your friend basically abducted me while I was working.”

“Stop avoiding the subject.” Castiel grined again, still focused on what he was doing. Dean smiled. Maybe Cas didn't have a vagina, and maybe he was more off-putting than Dean's usual friends, but he could still be fun to hang out with. “Tell me.”

He turned off the water and dried his hands with a dishcloth, before facing Dean again, with effervescent eyes. “I'll agree to show you one, and only one, if you won't ask for more.”

Dean thought about it for a second. “You'll change your mind when I look genuinely interested.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“I don't. Ish.”

“I'm pretty sure that phrasing is incorrect.”

“I'm really clever, you're probably wrong.”

“Of course,” he said as he left the room to disappear behind a wooden door of which only one half was painted in blue, the natural dark brown of the wood still majorly present.

Dean could hear papers being ruffled, and he could imagine Cas fighting his way through piles of useless Swedish to get to what he was looking for. He really wanted to get up and look at things, like the shelf that was threatening to collapse under the weight of all the colorful books it was supporting, or the somewhat artistic table made of glass and all the coffee stains imprinted onto it. This apartment was an anachronism on its own. The mess and the lack of any recent technologies (there wasn't even a microwave) made it look really ancient, but the little sculptures here and there, that didn't represent anything clearly enough to be called realistic, the parking lot he could see through the window, and more importantly the pop-rock music he could faintly hear from the apartment below brought a very current look to the place. But Dean resisted all that, knowing all too well how invasion of privacy was a pain in the ass. He sat quietly and looked at his feet, the brown socks he was wearing. It's weird how simple associations of the mind work. The only place where you take off your shoes is home, or maybe a really close friend's house, but Dean had never called someone a close friend. It was stupid really, but being shoeless gave Castiel's home a sense of familiarity it might no deserve, but it had acquired regardless of logic and better judgement.

“Alright, I think I've made my choice,” Castiel came back from what Dean assumed was his bedroom with a yellowish paper in his hands. “Please try not to react. In fact, don't say anything. It should be more comfortable for the both of us.”

“What if I find it beautifuf?”

The mix of fear and excitement in Cas' eyes was unsettling, he was obviously trying to favor one at the expense of the other, but every time he thought he'd gotten it right, the equilibrium re-established itself. “Now that you've said that you'll have to say it's beautiful or else I'll know you dislike it, which means you'll say it's beautiful whatever your true thoughts may be, and I will believe you hate it. Trust me, it is better if you say nothing.”

“Okay,” Dean agreed simply. The guy was nervous enough already, there was no need to argue over the terms. It was insane, how confident he'd been when he'd left the room, and how unsure he was now, hanging onto his paper as if it was a vital organ, a piece of his soul, his hand almost shaking as he was slowly handing it over to Dean. Dean felt a shot of anxiety run through his veins as the tan fingers got closer and closer to his. Castiel was trembling with apprehension, he had no right to mess up, to find the thing common or meaningless, it was something he had no right to cheapen, and the magnitude of the moment hit him with a strength he'd never known. He'd accepted numerous responsibilies in his life, sometimes for others' well-being, sometimes for their existence. But this one thing, this thing he'd brought on himself, it felt like too much, it was so little with what seemed like so much at stake.

He wasn't given the time to change his mind, as he watched his own fingers close around the edge of the sheet and bring the picture so that his eyes could see it.

It was a bird, made of thin black lines, looking back at Dean. It was missing feathers and the ones that hadn't deserted him were damaged, as if they had fought against a wind so strong the struggle had been completely hopeless. It was holding one of its paws as high as it could above the ground, a finger on it was clearly broken. Its head was crooked, and it looked familiar somehow. Its gaze was curious, and looking at its black eyes only, you couldn't tell it was hurt.

Dean didn't know how long he'd stared for sure, when Castiel broke the silence. “It's from a poem,” he said quickly, trying to fill up the space Dean's voice had left empty. “I think it's called the Darkling Thrush, I shoud check that. I can, if you want.” Dean didn't need to glance at him to know the look of embarrassement and worry there was in his eyes. “Can you please say something?”

Dean looked up then, his face calm and impartial. “I thought you wanted me to be quiet.”

“Changed my mind. Please talk.”

“Is it gonna die?”

Castiel's eyes closed, only to widen when he opened them again. Dean realized he was sitting on the adjacent tool. “Does it look like it's gonna die?”

“It looks like it wondering why I'm wondering.”

Castiel's body slanted towards Dean, trying to get a better look at his own work. Dean re-arranged the bird in his hands, angling it so they could both look at it without having to sit on each-other. “Do you think it knows?”

The question could have been impish. It should have been impish. Castiel should have known what the one and only correct answer to that question was, but he didn't sound like it. He sounded like he'd discovered the thing for the first time, and he didn't understand what it was about anymore.

“Knows what,” Dean said lightly, deadly focused on every detail.

“That it's dying.”

“Is it dying then?”

“That's probably the only certain fact there is about this thing. It is going to freeze, or bleed out, look at its plumage.”

“It's not panicking,” Dean remarked. “It's... serene. Peaceful.”

“Is it because it doesn't know, or because it's okay with it?”

Dean tried to look. He tried to see the tiny detail that would answer that question, but there wasn't one.

“I don't even know what I'm hoping the answer is.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Cas is talking about is Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy.  
> The bit about time and black holes is from Tomatoes by Shane Koyczan.


	9. See you soon, loverboy.

After what felt like maybe a half hour long bizar conversation both men tried to make about the other, Dean finally heard light footsteps he recognized as Charlie's on the parquet of the hall. Castiel must have seen the look on his face, the way he angled his head to hear the noise better, because he smiled at the floor and got up and to his door.

“Well, that wasn't so bad. Let's do it again some time,” he said as his hand reached for the doorknob and Dean retrieved his phone from the kitchen counter.

“Were you expecting me to murder you or something?” He joined Castiel right next to his door and patiently waited for him to open it.

They heard Charlie's voice next door. _“Dean? Are you there?”_

Castiel hid a laugh behind a smile, because of Dean or Charlie, it was hard to tell. “Murder, no. Mad yelling and throwing a punch or two? I don't know, I guess I took a chance there.”

“Why would I punch you,” Dean asked gravely.

Castiel's eyes shot straight up to his face, a bit wider than usual, and with a glint of something in them, not exactly fear, but definitely not humor nor hope. Whatever it was, it disappeared quickly enough to be replaced by the playful expression Dean already felt as if he'd known for years. “You know,” he said, shrugging and letting his back hit the wall behind him. “I could have... done something and I've heard – I mean I've read, some people don't react too well.”

Dean nodded slowly, in an _I see what you mean_ kind of way, and stopped. “No, I don't. I don't see what you mean.”

Cas snorted and stood straight again, his fingers back around the door handle. “It really doesn't matter. You should go back to your friend or she'll be making assumptions.”

“I'm not wearing any shoes, she'll be making assumptions anyway.”

“That is very likely indeed,” he replied with a happy grin, and then he pulled the door open.

Dean stepped into the hall, and turned around, this socks making the whole thing silent. “I guess we'll see eachother around.”

His years of one night stands must have turned these goodbye phrases into an automatism. Whether not that was true, Castiel's smile widened. “We literally live ten feet away from eachother, so yes, I think that's a fair assessment of the situation.” And with that, he shut the door again.

It took five knocks for Charlie to finally get the damn door open. When she did, she looked ready to face Jehovah's Witnesses who would put the fear of God in her with leaflets. “Dean,” she said as she let her hand fall from her hip. “Thought you were spending the day at Bobby's.”

It didn't really sound like she was asking for an explanation, more like she was apologizing for giving him her murderous glare. “Yeah, I'm going now.” She was still leaning against the door frame, squinting and nodding but keeping him out. “I mean, if you'll let me pass.” She was still frozen. “If that's okay with you?” He said when the stillness was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

She moved suddenly, as if the message had been slow to reach her brain but had hit it with superhuman force when it'd finally gotten in. “Sorry, yeah of course.” She made her body flat against the door and looked at him with an innocent smile as his shoulder almost brushed her chin as he stepped inside.

“What's up with you?” He asked suspiciously; innocent-looking Charlie was no good sign.

“Nothing,” her high-pitched little voice sang as she closed the door with a push of her hip. Miraculously, she didn't look down at the floor and didn't notice his shoeless status, and he spared half a second sending his thanks to whoever was up there looking at him. “There are some pancakes in the fridge,” she called out from her room, “I made them this morning.”

“There _were_ ,” he corrected her with a smug smile as he laced up his shoes.

  


________________________________________

  


  


Bobby found him under the hood of a car, singing along to Alice Cooper as he was trying to get a better look at an oxygen sensor. “ _Dean_ ,” he heard him yell for what probably wasn't the first time, if the look of exasperation on his face was anything to go by.

He let go of his torch and gripped his bottle of water. “Boss.”

“I shouldn't be able to find you just following the sound of loud drums boy,” he said. He came closer and handed him one of the white envelopes he always used to pay him. “There's more than usual, so I expect that car to be ready to go before closing time tonight, got it?”

“Sure thing.” Dean took it from him and indeed, it was _way_ thicker than usual. “Hey Bobby,” he called before the old man could leave him to his work. “Are these all five dollar bills or are you tryna buy my silence for what happened to that Jeep?”

“Consider it a Christmas bonus,” Bobby mumbled.

“In May?”

He sighed. “You don't question Christmas bonuses, idjit. Just take the money and fix that damn Toyota. And lower the frigging volume.” He was almost gone when he turned around with a roll of his eyes. “I almost forgot, some chick left that for you this morning.”

He pulled out another envelope from the inside of his sleeveless down jacket and sent it flying towards Dean. He caught it easily and looked at it with a frown, examining every angle. “A woman?”

Bobby crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling, as he usually did when he was trying to remember details. “Yeah, about five foot nine, long brown hair...”

“British?”

He nodded. “You know her?”

“ _Knowing_ 's a strong word,” he answered, still toying with the piece of paper, “thanks, Bobby.”

“Just tell her to text you next time, I ain't runnin' a post office here.”

Dean waited to be alone again to wipe his hands on some piece of cloth. He looked around himself to make sure he wasn't being watched, it was a reflex that would probably stick forever, and he tore the thing open. Inside, he found a rigid paper card, on which a message had been carefully handwritten with blue ink. _Tomorrow, 10pm, at the bar where you met with Anna Milton on the fifth of April. Be there. PS: I would make some sort of threat, but I think it is a formality you and I can afford to skip. See you soon, loverboy._

The paper was perfumed; it wasn't a fragrance Dean could recognize, but after seeing the car she drove, he could guess it must have been some expensive shit. It was easier to try to figure out whether it was Chanel or... something else, than think about the message itself, and Dean would have gladly thought about fashion all day, if the implications behind the words hadn't been so haunting. It appeared he had been followed for longer than he'd thought. They'd also researched Anna. He tried to remember the short time he'd spent with her in that bar, tried to find Bela's face there, but he couldn't. That could mean two things: either she was the most discreet person he would ever meet, or she wasn't the only one Crowley had sent to watch him. Dean wasn't sure which one was more tormenting yet. _Shit_. He read the words again, making sure he hadn't hallucinated, but they were still there, mocking and immovable.

He'd have to go. He didn't have a choice. If they'd been watching him, which was becoming more and more likely by the second, then they knew where he was staying. If they knew who Anna was, they probably had a biography of his brother lying somewhere around, pictures of Charlie on a wall. Meg, Jo, and even Cas, all targets now.

It wasn't like he could allow himself to be surprised. He hadn't been careful at all. He'd known Crowley was after him, and he hadn't worried about it, all because his escape plan had been so perfect. So no, he wasn't surprised. In fact, he was calm. Serene. He would go, and he would find a way to fix it. After everything he'd done, he wasn't sure anyone was ready to try to force him to do anything just yet. He would meet Bela there, be politely threatening, and he would make her back off, along with her boss and whoever else was involved. Panicking was useless. Panicking was the shortest way to death.

So he put the card back in the envelope, which he gently folded and tucked into one of his pockets, along with the other – more welcome – envelope he'd been given, and he got back to work, after lowering the volume of his Baby's radio.

  


The blue Toyota was as good as new before closing time, but it was too late to get onto another car, so he decided to clean up his tools, make sure they wouldn't rust. He applied himself with as much concentration as Sammy used to put into maths, or he'd seen Charlie put into hacking into surveillance cameras for fun. When Benny came up to him to tell him everybody was clearing out, he almost jumped.

“Didn't mean to scare you,” the moutain of muscle apologized.

“It's okay,” Dean assured him, putting his screwdriver back in his box and shoving the thing under a table. “I'm just tired.”

“Wanna grab a beer? I know a good place where drinks are cheap enough, if you're interested.”

“Um, let me just...” He put his jacket back on and checked that his wallet was still there. “Sure.”

  


For the whole ride there, Dean kept fearing they would end up in the bar where he'd meet with Bela. He kept catching his fingers drumming against the wheel, whereas there was no music playing. He almost sighed in relief when Benny's car parked in front of a renovated building, with walls made of red bricks.

“That looks crowded,” he said as he got out of his car.

“Cheap alcohol will do that,” Benny answered, holding the door open for him.

They got inside and found a round table in the middle of the room, right under a lamp, making the whole thing too bright and exposed for Dean's liking, but it wasn't like there was any more suitable alternative. They ordered two beers, and Dean smiled a bit exaggeratedly at their waitress, earning a snort from his drinking partner.

“What,” he half-asked, still smiling. They might have been exposed visually, but the noise in the bar made their conversation private, so that was something.

“Nothing,” Benny so very obviously lied. “It's just, I've known you for what, five years? And you're still just as flirtatious. I mean you know, you must have been twenty something the first time I saw you, I thought it'd pass. Find yourself a nice girl, settle down...”

Dean chortled. “Right, not really my thing.”

“And why is that? Face like yours, don't tell me you can't find anyone.”

“Please,” he deadpanned, “if you seriously ended up with that Andrea girl, I can get Scarlett Johanson whenever I want.” Benny grinned as he saw him wink to the waitress when she brought them their drinks. “I'm just not the settling down type. I move around too much.” They both took a mouthful from their drinks. “You're still with the Andrea girl, right?” He didn't really care that much, but it did redirect the conversation.

“Yeah, we're thinking about buying a house.” What Benny went on about was mostly blah blah blah house, lawn, nursery, for Dean. He wasn't a bad listener, he was just tired. He was constantly tired when he was visiting his brother. His body and mind put up with the rhythm he imposed upon them for the rest of the year, and they seemed to stop holding their breath when he set a foot in Sammy's building. His usual nights lasted five or six hours at most, but on Sam's couch, he could sleep for nine hours straight and still feel tired when he woke up. Tonight, he also had the whole Bela thing on his mind. He could tell himself it would all turn out alright all he wanted, he couldn't just put it in a bubble and let it float away, as a school therapist had once suggested. Mrs. Lintott, she was called, and he'd hated her. God he was tired. “... so I'm looking for a garage in that area.”

“Bobby's gonna be devastated,” he answered. He'd perfected the look of the terribly interested friend along the years. “You're his best mechanic. Well, most of the year.”

Benny laughed. “Maybe you can come and replace me permanently. Find a girl around here, stay close to your brother.”

“Is my freedom bothering you or something,” he asked with a grin.

Benny narrowed his eyes and nodded leisurely, before his face broke into a new smile as Dean huffed out a laugh. “I'm just saying, you should find someone that you like before you start aging for real and one day women stop looking at you.”

Dean sighed, his smile still digging dimples in his cheeks, “Benny, along with wine and cheese, I'm part of the three things on Earth that don't age, we just level up.”

“That's right, I forgot you shared a common ancester with French food.”

Benny told him more about Andrea and how her family was a weird bunch of people, about the truck he was working on and he hoped Bobby would sell him for a good price when it was finished, and Dean occasionnaly filled the blanks with hums and _right_ and _you bet_. He was mostly somewhere else. He was trying to imagine himself leading such a life. He replaced Benny's name with his own in what the man was telling him about, and pictured a blurry woman that was a mix of Lisa and Anna instead of Andrea. A house with blue walls, a lawn he'd have to mown every Sunday to compete with the one hidden behind the white fence, a dog with long hair and a mailbox he'd check every morning. An extra room he'd have to wait to paint in blue or pink because he didn't know yet, and a garage where his Baby could rest. Daily jogging, cooking eggs for the team in the morning, reading bedtime stories and owning a washing machine. Changing his own sheets, taking a kid to guitar classes and a Stones concert, meeting teachers, helping with homework. Inviting Sam to have dinner at his with silverware and apetizers. Locking his Baby's trunk and hiding the key in bowl filled with salt. For a moment, Dean told himself _why not?_ The number of answers his brain supplied gave birth to a wry smile on his face.

Even if he could ever convince himself that this was the life he wanted, he wasn't meant for it. He might have been, when he was younger, naive and stubborn, but that phase had ended long ago.

“So when are you leaving?” Benny ended up asking after three beers.

Dean snorted. “You people need to stop asking me that, I'm gonna start feeling rejected.” Benny stressed his mild curiosity with a lift of his eyebrows. “I have no idea, I'm not really on a strict schedule.” _Anymore_.

“You've been here for a good three weeks huh? Longer than usual isn't it?”

“Something like that.”

“See,” Benny pointed at him accusingly with his bottle, sending a bit of beer flying Dean's direction. “Your subconscious is trying to settle down.”

“Quit insisting on that will you?” Dean pulled a sip from his drink, gulping it harshly.

“Whatever man,” he sat back, and drank with a sly expression, eyes on Dean.

  


________________________________________

  


  


It was ten o'clock when Dean knocked on his own door again that day.

“I'm in the shower,” Charlie shouted. “Hold on a minute, I'm almost done.” Sometimes he had to remind himself that no, this girl was neither his sister nor his girlfriend. Charlie had a way of naturally insinuating herself as a casual element into Dean's life.

“Sure,” he muttered, one corner of his mouth pulling up. “I'll just... wait here, then.” He leaned against the wall with the door and let his body slide down until he was sitting, his legs crossed at the ankles before him. “Hey,” he called out louder, “isn't Sam home yet?” The bathroom was probably directly on the other side of the wall.

“No,” Charlie's voice covered the running water. “He's sleeping out tonight, working with someone.”

“Someone?”

Hearing her tone, he could almost see her shrug. “Not someone I know. Well, as far as I know. I mean I don't have a name.”

Dean felt overprotectiveness rush through his veins, but he tamed it. It wasn't like he brother didn't survive all the rest of the year without him. He heard the water turn off, and Charlie opened the door some thirty seconds later.

“You're gonna need a key one of these days,” she scolded him.

He thought about his afternoon, and sighed. “You have no idea.”

They agreed to watch an episode of Game of Thrones that night, Dean made an omelet and grilled some steaks, and they ate in front of the television.

“Man, that Joffrey guy's a dick,” he said after a while.

She chuckled sardonically (it was apparently possible to do that) next to him and talked with her mouth full of eggs. “You're so innocent, just you wait.”

He laughed at her statement. “You're calling _me_ innocent?”

“Damn straight,” she answered. “You haven't even seen him kill people yet, watch him become a _real_ dick.”

Dean huffed out a humorless laugh, and ate the rest of his dinner without speaking again.

 


	10. Beauty is a form of genius.

He'd put on some weight in the last few weeks. He noticed it when he got out of the shower the next morning, and looked in the mirror for the first time in a long time. The once clear lines of his pectorals had faded a bit; not because the muscles were disappearing, but because a thin layer of fat was now covering them. He wasn't worried about it, or even bothered, but he realized that his metabolism had started to adjust to his new life style. No more running on rooftops nor skipping three meals a week: his days now consisted in watching a lot of television, eating waffles and burgers, and the most exercise he got was when he was working at Bobby's, which was almost as good as a slow walk compared to his past habits.

He couldn't let it go too far, he thought as he put a towel around his waist and headed to Charlie's room, where he'd left his stuff. It wasn't about aesthetics, or pride, it was about still being able to run like Hell was after him if he ever needed to. He also needed to buy some new clothes – his bag barely contained more than three shirts and two pairs of pants. Surprisingly enough, sedentary life was a pain in the ass when you had to stick to it for more than four days, and not for the reasons he'd thought. He was seeing less and less of his Baby, his body was changing of its own accord, and his socks were disappearing God knew where, something Sam had told him was perfectly normal and _yes_ , irritating.

Dean winced at the thought of growing at ease with this idea of life. Growing old. It made him shiver, and he thought of the way freaking cats arch their spine and how their hairs rise up on their body when they're under attack. That was how he would have reacted. You know, if he'd been a cat.

However, he was a human being and he had to get dressed, with preferably different clothes every week, shave, cut his hair, and now find a way to exercise without _exercising_. At least not by Sam's definition of the word.

Dean had looked inside the envelope Bobby had given him once he'd been by himself. There were almost eight hundred dollars in there, for barely four weeks of unevenly scheduled work. _You don't question Christmas bonuses_ , he'd repeated himself. He couldn't help thinking about it though. He thought about that guy, who'd barely even glanced at the desperate twenty-two year old kid Dean had once been, before handing him a wrench and telling him to go for it. Bobby hadn't asked any questions. He knew Dean had a brother, and showed up once a year to visit him. He knew the kid might turn up on his doorstep anyday, at any hour, and that he wouldn't stop by to say goodbye before he inevitably left. Dean owed him. Not money, or else he'd have thrown the envelope back in Bobby's direction and ran to his car before the man could shove it back at him again; but he owed him trust. And now, he owed Bobby for that money he clearly hadn't earned.

 _You don't question Christmas bonuses_ , he repeated again, and let the thing go for now. He'd treat his little family to dinner, and get Sam and Charlie something for all the birthdays he'd spent away from them. Then he'd give the rest to Charlie, and she would use it to pay bills. Oh, and he'd buy some clothes before doing that. Three shirts just wasn't gonna cut it.

Of course, the most pressing matter he had to think about was Bela.

Jesus, things were trying to climb on top of each other inside his head, making it pound and hurt, and it wasn't even ten am yet. On top of that, he could hear Garth or whatever his name was playing next door and it wasn't making things any better. Hopefully the guy would remember their encounter and shut it already. Dean sighed forcefully through his nose and realized his belt was hugging him too tight, so he gave it some more slack than usual.

He made sure the few clothes he owned covered up the guns and knives hidden in his bag in case someone got nosy urges in the night, and closed it. The days were growing hotter in California – well, everywhere else on the north hemisphere as well, but especially in California – and he had to resign himself to leave his jacket behind, and he even rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He looked so normal, it gave him a weird feeling that wasn't completely disagreeable.

He drove into town with his Baby's windows down, his left elbow taking the opportunity to rest there, music punching its way through the radio. He parked in front of some shop with dummies behind the showcase, and tried to get in and out as quick as possible. He could hear couples discussing articles of clothing around him, and 'the cut's alright but I'm not sure it's your color', 'honey face it you'll have to take the upper size', 'I'm not letting you wear this at school' and 'come on Gary do you really think she needs more black in her wardrobe'. It made him feel out of place, and he just stuffed decent shirts and a few pairs of pants in the bag a shop assistant had given him, got as many socks as he could find, and hurried towards the cash register. He felt like there was some compound in the air messing with his skin, an itch he couldn't scratch, and the look the lady at checkout gave him when he opened his envelope full of cash confirmed the fact that he'd stepped inside a world he had no business messing with.

Climbing up a tree with a bag wasn't easy, but at least this time he'd remembered to leave the window open. He was almost surprised not to be interrupted by Cas, he'd even slowed down walking by his window, but obviously, the one time he was going to be prepared instead of awkwardly standing there, the man was hiding from him.

Dean let go of the blue plaid shirt that was too warm for the weather, and put on the AC/DC t-shirt he'd found lying around somewhere in the shop, and it was a little too large for him, but it brought a happy smile to his face. He felt a bit ridiculous, but a bit more lighthearted too, somehow.

A rock band t-shirt wasn't enough to take his mind off everything though. But he might know what would be. He knew Charlie had records hidden somewhere, and he was sure he could find something to play them, so he started looking, trying not to break anything or make too much of a mess on his way.

He was trying to get past all the video game magazines in a huge drawer in Charlie's room when he heard a knock on the door. He went completely still, a dozen of magazines in his hands, and waited for the sound to come again. It wasn't Sam nor Charlie: these guys had a key, and they didn't lose it. He focused for a moment. It had to be either a resident, or someone who regularly came to the building, someone the guardian knew well enough to let in without calling whoever they claimed they came to visit. Nothing Dean should be worried about then. He carefully put the magazines down and walked to the door, listening to the knocks. They were light but insistant: slender frame, probably short enough, but past twenty. Garth?

He opened the door and found Meg, in her usual high heels, leather jacket, and glazed-ish, provocative-ish expression.

She frowned and widened her eyes at the same time, giving Dean the most curious and confused expression he'd ever witnessed. “Dean? What are you doing here?”

He mirrored her perplexity. “I um, I live here? What are _you_ doing here?”

“What do you mean you _live_ here?” She crossed her arms and let the top half of her body rest on one of her hips. “You've been here for over three weeks already. Why aren't you gone?”

“I swear to God,” he mumbled. “Do you people want me to apologize for intruding into your lives? Is that it?”

She squinted at him and remained silent.

“What are you doing here?” he asked again, more flatly.

She kept up with the creepy prying look for a while, and then let her face relax before answering. “I was gonna hit on your neighboor,” she said with a challenging stare.

Dean let his hand fall from the door to cross his arms as well, and his eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “Cas? Well you could've tried his door, for a start.”

“I was gonna be smooth about it.”

“Smooth? How is knocking on the wrong door smooth? Since when do you even _do_ smooth?”

“He's a virgin,” she explained matter-of-factly. “You don't jump these people.”

“A _virgin_ ,” Dean repeated incredulously.

“Please,” she shook her head, “with his bright blue eyes relishing your freckles like it's the first time they see a pretty face?”

Dean felt hot in the tips of his ears.

“He's untouched.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” he muttered, “I'm not gonna ask what your wicked plan was, I'm just going to pretend that it didn't happen and try to control the flow of images.”

“Aw Dean, don't be such a prude,” she drawled, and avoided his eyes by glancing around herself. “Anyway, I guess I'll knock on his door and improvise. Thanks for ruining my wicked plan.”

Dean forced the corners of his mouth up but didn't let the annoyed smile reach his eyes. “Walk your sinful ass away from my virtue,” he deadpanned, and shut the door.

He heard the door lock, then silence, and then he heard her heels clattering on the wooden floor. He could see the slow swing of her hips just hearing the rhythm of her steps. He heard her knock on Castiel's door, and then the door opened. He could recognize the voices – it was easy enough since he already knew what to expect, granted – but he couldn't make out the words. Meg's languid tone was still evident, and Castiel's low-pitched voice sounded hoarse. She spoke a lot more than him, and a bit louder too. It crossed Dean's mind that he was eavesdropping and it wasn't exactly a behavior he stood for. He went back to Charlie's room and resumed searching for her records, blocking the wandering thoughts with all his might. It was just really hard to avoid thinking about that girl he'd fantasised about while being completely unable to act on it, especially when she was less than twenty feet away from him, in a place he didn't need to use his imagination to picture, with a guy he already had a face for. He seriously doubted anything was happening on the other side of the white wall in the living room, but who knows? Maybe Cas was bi, or whatever people called it; maybe he hadn't been able to tell she was a legitimate target, but now that Dean had told him she was, Cas was going to take advantage of it. Maybe they were going at it right now, just next door, and holy hell wasn't that thought the most exciting and freaking frustrating one Dean had had in days. Days of celibacy, he might add.

He just needed to get it out of his system. He walked to the living room and sat down on the couch. Sam and Charlie wouldn't be home before six: he didn't need to fear to be interrupted. Images of Meg's pale skin clashing with her dark hair and eyes kept coming to him as he unzipped his pants and cursed at himself for being such a creep. He didn't do public sex, nor threesomes; he wouldn't even ever let someone watch, and now he was getting off on one of his friends with a guy he knew. He saw Cas' hands pushing Meg's jacket off her shoulders while she was in his lap, making her seem more and more fragile and diaphanous as clothes fell off her body. But Meg wouldn't break, and as soon as Cas would think he had her, she'd let out her claws and have him to herself, lying on the floor. She'd have him naked and moaning, his hips held to the floor, his hands running up and down her thighs, trying to regain control but utterly unable to do more than beg. Cas would be a writhing mess. Dean's hand went up and down his cock as his eyes closed to see better. Cas's skin was tan, Meg's pastel fingers would contrast with his chest as she'd prevent him from sitting up to take her in his arms. She'd ride him agonizingly slow, sprinkling his chest with kisses, her nails burning lines on his opened thighs, pretending to be loving. By that time, Dean's hips were raising from the couch to meet his hand. He hadn't thought about taking tissues with him. He wasn't used to jerking off. That didn't stop Cas from whining, imploring Meg to let him come. Every fragment of voice Dean could pick up from the other apartment turned into a whimper, every other noise was furniture being pushed around to make place for Cas to carry Meg around and lay her on every flat surface, her legs tight around his waist. Dean hadn't had any of that in too long, and he wasn't going to last. When Meg's fingers pulled on Cas's dark hair to attack his throat, and his strangled cry was one third pain and two thirds pleasure, Dean was done for.

He opened his eyes again and looked down at his ruined shirt as he got his breath back. He wiped his right palm on his t-shirt too, trying to avoid the four red letters in the middle. Fortunately, his poor shopping talents he made up for with his knowledge of how to use washing machines. He took it off and shoved it into his bag; he'd have to find a laundromat somewhere. He took a black shirt out of the paper bag and put it on, promising himself it was the last time he was getting changed that day. He tried to clean up his fingers and his dick as he could without taking a shower.

The same knock on the door came again as he zipped his pants back up.

“Did he throw you out already,” Dean asked as he pulled it open.

Meg stood there silently for a second, looking at his chest. “You're not wearing the same shirt,” she remarked, her eyes flying back up to his.

Dean looked down at himself, as if surprised by the news, and indeed, he wasn't. “So?” He could feel his face searching for a sincere expression that would make her forget about it.

One side of her mouth grinned. “Nothing,” she drawled. “Should've known you were worse than a girl.”

He smiled unimpressedly and shook his head. “Do you need a condom or something? I'm pretty sure Sam doesn't have any, and it's not like Charlie would ever need one.” He didn't mention that he didn't have any himself. He'd carried some around for a few years, but he'd soon understood that women often did have condoms in their bedside tables. Smart beings they were.

“Please,” she crooked her head, “I came prepared. He's just – he'll take some time. Bad kind of shy, you know?”

No sex then.

“I don't.” Shy, confident, extroverts, introverts, quiet, loud, pompous, modest, nobody had ever actually resisted him. “Maybe you're just not his type,” he smirked. People didn't need a type to like Meg. She was part of the people absolutely everyone on Earth who knew them, regardless of gender and sexual orientation, had thought about at least once, along with Megan Fox, Scarlett Johanson, and Brad Pitt.

“That's what you've been telling me for years, _not your type_... if the color of your cheeks is anything to go by – that and your change of clothes – I'd say it isn't much of an obstacle,” she stole his smug smile and pushed past his shoulder into the apartment.

 _Lying would make it worse_ , he told himself as she walked behind his back. He'd just make up some lame ass story and mumble his way through it and he'd make a fool of himself. Better to act as if he hadn't heard or was too wise to reply. It didn't stop his whole face burning. “Sam and Charlie won't be there before six,” he warned her as he closed the door. When he turned around she was already lying on the couch, where he'd been sitting and _Jesus_.

“I know, that's why I was hoping to find the place empty. Of course you had to linger in here the exact year Blue Eyes moved in next door, but who's saying there's any correlation there?”

Dean sat down in a chair facing her, and frowned. “Okay, so first of all, he's lived here for a few years, we just never noticed, and second of all, _Blue Eyes_? Really? Isn't that a bit too romantic for you?”

She huffed out a laugh and let her arms fall behind her head to stretch her body. “As long as he keeps his clothes on, it'll remain the most attractive part of him. And how do you know how long he's been here?” She turned her head against the cushion to look at him.

“Sam,” Dean blurted out. “You know how I met him, right?”

She grinned and nodded.

“Well, I asked Sam about him the next morning and he told me a few things. They've been neighboors for quite a while.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “Any other information you've gathered about him?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I'm his neighboor's brother, not writing his biography.”

She turned back to stare at the ceiling and sighed.

“Are you waiting for the family geniuses?” he asked after a while. “'cause it's gonna be quite a while...”

“It's not your place, you can't throw me out.”

Dean raised his head from the back of the seat, where it was resting, and looked at Meg with a curious air. “I wasn't gonna throw you out, I just want to know how long you'll let me enjoy your delightful company.”

She shrugged. “Depends on what we're eating.”

“Well I'm not your personnal cook and I'm not hungry, so we're not eating anything.”

Her brow furrowed disapprovingly.

“It's vegetarian," he precised.

That made her smile again.

“Good enough for me. Is there anything we can do except share our fantasies about Clarence next door?”

“We're not sharing, you're babbling away and I'm suffering through it.” Dean got up from his chair and looked down at her. “You can show me the new tattoos you drew since last year?”

She looked into his eyes and stayed there for a moment, until he raised his eyebrows to let her know he was starting to find it tiresome. “Bag.” She pointed at the other end of the couch and he picked it up.

He liked looking at what Meg drew. She drew all kinds of stuff for intransigent psychotic clients who dreamt about frogs with lion heads and women with uneven legs. Most of her art looked like it'd come right out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and the fact that somewhere on this planet, someone was wearing one of these pictures on their skin amazed him to no end. She'd tell him where she had tattooed them, and how long it'd taken, and he'd laugh at some, pull a face at others, and skip some pages when things got too weird. Since he was visiting so rarely, she had hundreds of these to show him each year, even though she hadn't tattooed all of them on skin. She had a vivid imagination and sometimes she just drew what came to mind. The point was: going through her sketchbook took them several hours each time, and the front door opened to reveal Sam before they got to the end.

“What are you guys giggling about?” The semi-giant put his bag down near the door and took off his shoes. “Plotting a murder? Has Meg finally convinced you to join her satanic cult?”

“No,” Dean said, still laughing, “some people are just... did she seriously ask you to tattoo that on his...?” Meg nodded gravely and Dean laughed some more.

“I see you've turned him into a ten year old again.” Sam looked at the both of them and smiled to himself.

“Sammy, you don't get to patronize me until you've gone through that thing without giggling like a girl.”

His little brother snorted and walked to the kitchen to look inside the fridge. “Careful with the sexist remarks around Charlie, she _will_ kick your ass.”

“Yeah, I'd like to see her try,” he mumbled under his breath as Meg turned to a new page. “Oh, man, just... stop, hide that thing.”

She smiled wolfishly and slid her sketchbook back into her bag. “What movie are we watching tonight?” She spoke loud enough for Sam to hear.

“I don't know,” they heard him hesitate, though it was probably about which brand of pasta he was going to cook. “You guys can just pick whatever you want. Not a Harry Potter film though, I suffer through them all year already.”

“Careful with the Harry Potter remarks,” Dean warned, “Charlie _will_ kick your ass.”

“I'd like to see her try,” they heard faintly.

Meg got up on her feet and went to the shelf where they kept all their dvds. Sam never bought any, and Charlie downloaded most of the things she wanted to watch, so they didn't have all that many. A few Bond films, superhero stuff, and of course all of the Harry Potter films with bonuses and interviews and all those things Dean didn't understand.

“I'm not overwhelmed by our choices,” Meg complained. “Dean, any requests?”

He cleared his throat before answering, “I'm not gonna be there tonight. Unless you wanna wait 'til maybe midnight.”

“Where are you going?” Sam asked, suddenly back in the living room again.

“Get some action, probably,” Meg replied for him.

“Someone has to in this house,” he teased the both of them. Teasing made people shut up, teasing worked. As planned, Sam rolled his eyes and went back to the difficult task of finding something decent to eat while Meg went throught the thirty or so boxes on the shelf. He looked at his watch, it was already past eight o'clock.

  
  


________________________________________

  
  


  
  


The roads were practically empty as he drove through the night. He'd left Sam, Charlie and Meg to decide what they were going to watch for the twentieth time this year, and had decided to arrive at his meeting point just a tiny bit late, because he wasn't taking any one of these assholes' orders anymore, but he still knew that being a proud little idiot with them wasn't the best idea he could come up with.

The bar was completely empty, except for Bela, when he arrived. The sign on the door read _9am to 9pm_.

Bela was wearing black: black boots, black tights, black dress, black coat. She was sipping coffee, and waiting patiently.

“Hope I didn't keep you waiting,” his voice covered the sound of the bell when he opened the door.

She didn't tear her eyes from her beverage. Dean would have thought he was invisible if it hadn't been for her reply.

“Yes you do. It's fine.” Her accent made everything sound haughty. Or maybe it was just her natural tone. “I knew you'd show up. I just hope being purposefully late of..." she took an intent look at her watch, " _five_ _whole_ _minutes_ makes you more confident," she said with a smile revealing aggressively white teeth, "otherwise it _would_ just be a waste of my time.” She finally looked at him. “Sit.”

He walked slowly to the only free chair at her table, and sat, trying to look as bored as her, and probably failing.

“You're very young,” she said, conversationally. “How good can you be?”

“Oh I don't know,” he replied quickly, and coldly. “But if Crowley wants me that bad, must mean something, right?”

She drank her coffee, ignoring him for a moment. It was frustrating and stressful, and he just needed to fill that silence.

“Aren't you younger than me anyway? Why did he send you?”

She put her empty cup down and straightened her back. “I'm better,” was all she said.

“Better at what?” he asked irritatedly when she remained silent.

“You name it,” she answered with a slight shrug. “I suppose Crowley believes in charm,” she added after a while. “'Divine right of sovereignty', was it? I think he reads a lot."

“I'm sure he didn't send you so that you could quote stuff I don't give a shit about all night. Why am I here?”

“Dean Winchester,” she carefully pronounced, all of her teeth bared. “You never really think about your looks, do you? You just take them for granted. You shouldn't. Most people, especially people in our profession, don't resemble princes. It is an advantage. An unfair one, but one our employer has a lot of respect for. No wonder he refused to let you go that easily.”

“I wouldn't call it _easily_ ,” he spat out.

Her lips closed around her fangs like curtains, but didn't cover the grin. “You still have two eyes. Believe me, not all people in your situation can say the same.”

“Cut your bullshit, this is the last time I'm asking, then I'm gone. Why am I here?” His fingers were drumming a discontinuous rhythm on his knee.

“To be my prince,” she replied easily. “Crowley has one job for us, one and he'll leave you alone.” Dean tried to interrupt, but her threatening glare stopped him. “It isn't a job for vassals. As I have stated before, not many people couple your skills and your natural rights – well, all the gifts you were born with, in short. Crowley would simply like to put them all to good use, silmultaneously.”

“When you say _like_...”

“I mean he is very possessive. You know, the _if I can't have it then nobody can_ sort of thing. Nobody including you.”

Dean stopped his fingers. “How can I be sure he'll leave me the hell alone afterwards?”

She raised her chin. “I wouldn't be. But wouldn't you say the possibility of being assigned another job is better than the certainty of losing a part of your body?”

He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on the table. “What if I was to slit your throat, here and now? No more partner, no more job.”

She mirrored him and put on another menacing and amused smile. “Darling, you wouldn't have time to reach to the blade hidden against your ankle, or even the one you've got around your forearm, you'd already be dead. Besides, poor little Sammy would pay the price.”

He looked into her eyes and his upper lip winced. She was right. Even if he could kill her, and, let's face it, he was rusty and didn't like the thought of putting more blood on his hands, he would only be hurting himself. And taking the smug grin off her British face, but that wasn't worth Sammy's life.

He sat back up and forced his muscles to relax. “What does he want me to do?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Beauty is a form of genius - is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanations. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in the dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it.”  
> — The Picture of Dorian Gray, Lord Henry to Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde


	11. Do I have to?

"It was Meg."

These were words that never spoke of anything but trouble. These were the words Dean had heard from Charlie when Sam had gotten home and slammed his bedroom door behind himself for several hours a few years back, when he'd found his Baby's windows smashed one morning, and when a few records of his had not so mysteriously disappeared. Those three little words meant he'd have to go through a forty-five minute long conversation with a curvy version of himself on black heels, and he knew what a pain in the ass that was.

Dean had made it back home around eleven and a half, and he'd found Sammy, Meg and Cas sitting on the floor, empty glasses and bottles scattered around them, Castiel on the verge of passing out, and Meg encouraging him to keep going. It was impossible to measure the quantity of alcohol they had swallowed down by looking at either of the ladies: Charlie's tolerance was naturally higher than humanly possible, and Meg had been drinking the stuff like it was milk for several years; but Sam's pink cheeks and higher-than-usual-pitched laughter was a clear indicator that it had been more than a few beers.

Charlie had opened the door for him when he'd knocked, and she'd apologized for the mess he'd have to sleep around. “If you need to blame someone, blame Meg,” she'd told him. It wasn't something Dean needed to be told twice, even if he usually was.

“What's going on?” Any other day, he'd have happily sat and drank, he'd even have joined Meg in her attempt to bring Castiel to the edge of entering shut down mode, but not that day. The words were cold, colder than he'd ever meant, and he closed his eyes around his slightly guilty mind as he waited for Charlie's answer.

“I think Meg invited Cas over? And now they're getting him drunk,” she shrugged, it didn't really matter to her, she was just enjoying a drink night with a couple of friends and a guy she was more than fifty per cent sure wasn't a psycopath, so it made sense that she wouldn't give much of a shit. “He's doing alright, I think.” Dean was about to let it go, he wasn't anyone's father, he wasn't in his own home, and Castiel was a grown up who could take care of himself. He would have gone to the kitchen to grab a bite and drink a beer or two himself, and waited for his sleeping area to be cleared, if it hadn't been for what Charlie indifferently added. “For a novice, I mean.”

“What,” Dean stopped her with a hand on her shoulder as she was starting to walk back to the group they'd formed. “You mean he doesn't drink.”

She snorted. “I mean his cheeks got pink after one beer and he started laughing to Sam's jokes after two.” Dean didn't even smile, and she got slightly concerned. “He told us, when he first came here, remember?”

Dean wasn't sure he had it in himself to care right now, he just wanted to stop thinking for a while, and go to sleep for as long as his mind allowed him to stay there. It was nice that Cas got to spend the night away from his work, with people who were almost his age, getting drunk and chortling at stupid jokes, and it wasn't like he was fourteen and trying drugs, but somehow Dean felt a bit uncomfortable at the idea of leaving him there. The way Meg's hand regularly ended up on his thigh had him wincing. He'd seen enough of these nights in his twenties, and even though the genders had usually been reversed, he'd witnessed that scene too many times to simply shrug it off. He wasn't actually worried for Cas, but it was an itch, and one he'd taught himself to scratch.

“Are you joining us?” Charlie looked at him expectantly, and her question had drawn Sam's stare to them, while Meg's possessive eyes, darker than ever in the dim light, wouldn't leave Castiel's flushed face. “We could, like, move, if you want to sleep.”

“Yeah,” he heard himself say. He let his arms get rid of his jacket, still surveiling Meg's smile. “Sure.” Before he properly knew what he was doing, he found himself sitting across from Meg and Cas, who were sitting pretty close together, with Sam on his right and Charlie on his left. Sam handed him a half empty beer and Dean took it to his mouth automatically. Castiel's laugh, directed at Meg, paused as he acknowledged Dean's presence with wide, bloodshot eyes. He looked really tired, but his amusement was real. “What did you tell him that got him giggling like Sammy,” he asked her. It wasn't true, Cas didn't giggle like Sam, his laugh was deep and caught on his throat.

“I don't really have to say anything, he's just... drunk. Properly.”

Apparently Castiel had moved to the universe where everything became hilarious if you stared at it for more than half a second, and he hadn't left Dean's face in a while, so the chortle that erupted from him went on and on, and took Sam along, and soon even Charlie was huffing out loads of air through her nose as she drank from her beer.

“Okay, change of plan,” Dean spoke above Castiel's endless laugh after a while, checking that he wasn't choking on too much air with one eye. “I think you got drunk enough for tonight, and you need to got to bed.”

“Tomorrow's Sunday,” Charlie reminded him with a nudge of her shoulder.

“Alright,” Dean grumbled, “then I need to sleep, and I won't be able to until that one,” he pointed his bottle at Cas, “has made it to his bed, and that one,” he directed it towards Meg, “... where are you even going to sleep? You're not driving, I'm not driving, we've got a problem.”

“That one's got a couch,” she motioned towards Cas with her chin, and looked Dean in the eye.

That was not on. He didn't really have to think about it, his brain just knew. He was tired as fuck and he had to get some sleep, because too many things were pounding in his head and desperately trying to get out and find a higher intelligence that could process all of them, but his brain had decided that he wasn't gonna let Meg rape that guy. It wasn't because he knew Cas, that didn't make any difference, it was because that was the right thing to do. He'd never been raped, or even touched without his consent, not once in his life, but he was pretty sure he had an idea what that would be like. He had flashes, sometimes, when he was pounding into a woman with no face, in January, when there was no way he was going to sleep without a roof and heating. His dick was used to the feeling, and sometimes the warmth and tightness just wasn't enough to fool his mind. Sometimes it felt like he was raping himself, and no matter how hard he tried to focus on the cries he was forcing out of that other body, the only thing he felt was the burning urge to run out of the room, it made him sick to his stomach, and he panicked at the idea of not being able to keep it up and being thrown out. Waking up with someone's head on his shoulder, keeping him there when all he wanted was to leave the country, leave his own body... it was one of the worst things he'd ever felt. So no, he didn't have to think hard to decide that Meg wasn't sharing Cas' bed that night.

“Alright, I'm coming too,” he told her with a challenging glare. “No way I'm sleeping in the middle of this mess.”

The annoyed smile he got from her was another reason why his plan was such a great one. “There's just one couch,” she replied carefully.

“That's alright,” he grinned, “you can sleep on the floor.”

  
  


Dean helped Cas to his apartment as Sam and Charlie tumbled to their beds, and Meg went to her car to get something more comfortable to sleep in, because she'd obviously planned this. He placed the limping mess' arm around his neck, and slid his own around Cas' waist.

“Dean, this is ridiculous, I'm perfectly able to walk.”

“Cas,” he stopped walking to make eye contact with him, as well as catch his breath. “It's already taken us two whole minutes, and there's literally just ten feet, you're not capable of anything right now.”

“Oh,” Cas' tongue somehow managed to trip over one syllable. “Maybe it'd go quicker if you carried me.” The smug smile playing on his lips would have been endearing, if it hadn't been for the stink of his breath when it reached Dean's nostrils.

“Trust me,” Dean said, starting to walk again, “you don't want that.”

“Maybe I do.”

They kept their mouths shut until they finally reached Cas' door. “Key?”

Cas looked at him with a confused air, brow furrowed, lips pouted.

“Oh for God's sake,” Dean growled as he palmed Castiel's pockets, eyes on the ceiling, and infiltrated the one with a hump with two skillful fingers.

“You're blushing,” Cas told him when he dared to look down at the lock to fumble with it. “It makes your freckles stand out.”

Dean ignored him and pushed the door open. He held it that way with his back as he slowly helped Cas in, and let it go as soon as both his feet were standing on bits of paper with weird symbols on them. “You owe me so fucking much.” His hand pushed random buttons on his right, until the living room lit up. He started making his way towards the bedroom, Castiel taking unstable steps, trying to keep up with him, and failing so very miserably. “I thought you didn't drink,” Dean said when he realized it was going to be a long trip. “What happened? It was Meg wasn't it?”

Cas shook his head softly. “No, the one with fire in her hair.” He combed his fingers through his hair to make it clearer, and the dark battlefield it had been turned into wild grass. “They said they were getting drunk, and it was weird that I didn't,” Cas mumbled. “Said I could go home if I wanted instead.”

“Well, why didn't you?” They were halfway there.

“Hoped you'd come.”

This time, Dean didn't need to be told he was blushing, he could feel the blood in his ears boiling. “You know,” he let out without commanding it, “next time, it'd be easier if you just asked, instead of throwing yourself into Meg's traps, hoping I'll come to rescue you.” It didn't really matter what Dean said, it'd all be forgotten in the morning.

“I don't have your number,” Cas complained.

Dean reached for his the handle of his bedroom door and sighed as his shoulder supported Cas' weight through it. “If that's all it takes to keep you safe, I'll give it to you.”

Cas looked up at him, his eyes red and his face so, so tired, but he smiled, and Dean didn't know how much effort it must have taken him to get his exhausted muscles to move that much. He stayed still a few seconds, waiting for something to happen, for Cas to fall asleep in his arms or start walking again, or at least to stop freaking looking at him like that, when he spoke. Cas' overwhelmingly blue eyes fell on his lips and Dean was convinced for a second that he was gonna kiss him. He panicked a little bit when he realized that Castiel's anesthetized body would fall to the ground in a puddle of limbs if he let go of him. He had literally no choice but to let whatever would cross Cas' mind happen. His lips slowly came closer to his face, his melting stare still burning on his mouth, and he whispered, every puff of air brushing Dean's cheeks. “I also don't have a phone.”

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding, and pushed Castiel forward. “That is a problem indeed.” He looked around the room, but he could hardly see anything other than gray shapes. “Where's the light?” The absolute silence had him sighing and wait until his eyes got comfortable in the dark. He led him to the mattress that was lying on the floor, with three pillows in the middle, and nothing else. “Is that where you sleep?”

“Hmmm,” Castiel drawled, his lids falling on his eyes with sleep. He laid his head on Dean's shoulder, strands of dark hair messing with his jaw.

“There are no covers.” Dean thought about the best way to lay him down as Cas meditated on the statement. “Okay, um, hold onto my neck, alright?”

When he nodded, his hair tickled his neck and Dean tried to pull away from the sensation, but his head wasn't running that far away from the rest of his body, was it? He tightened his arm around Cas' ribcage and bent down. He felt his abs shaking as he forced himself to move as slowly as possible, careful not to tamper with Cas' digestive system too much.

When the black nest of hair touched the blue pillow, he pulled his arm out from under Castiel's body, and waited for the grip around his shoulders to loosen. “Cas,” he whispered. The 'Hmm' he received was raw. “Let go of me?”

“Do I have to?” Dean was pretty sure his voice had never been so low.

“Well,” the position he was in, as well as Cas' pull on his neck, got him a bit breathless, “I _could_ rip your arm off, but I think we can find an easier way to do this, don't you?”

Castiel grunted. “You're lying.”

“I'm really not.”

The room was completely dark, but a tiny spot of light appeared when Cas opened his eyes and the moon reflected onto them. “Go ahead,” he breathed.

Dean looked into the light. “You're being childish.”

“And you're being a liar.”

The accusation echoed in the room as they waited for the other to surrender. Dean's back hurt. Castiel fought sleep. Dean was a stubborn bastard. Cas was less obstinate for sure. One was comfortable in bed. The other was feeling cramps settling in. There was a knock on the door. Dean sighed.

“That's Meg.”

“ _You're_ , Meg.”

“Cas, you're not making any sense.”

“You're still stuck above me though.”

The door knocked again.

“I've got to go let her in.”

“I'm not letting go of you.”

Cas was breathing through his mouth. The air arrived warm and dry on Dean's face. The door knocked.

“I'm gonna stand up now, and if you don't take your arm away, you're going to fall back on your mattress, and throw up on yourself.”

“Not very sexy,” Cas drawled.

“Not really.” Dean pulled up tentatively, and Castiel's body raised up with his own. “God, you're a freaking idiot aren't you?”

“I'm not,” he really sounded insulted. “I speak five languages.”

The door knocked, and Meg yelled something rude.

“Alright,” Dean muttered, “you've had it coming.” He got up completely, Cas hanging onto him long enough to produce a loud puff when he fell, nails leaving burning lines on the nape of Dean's neck. “Are you fucking kidding me,” he growled, palming the base of his skull.

“Hmm...”

“This is the last time I'm taking you to bed,” he said as he left the room, barely dodging the edge of a desk. He left the door open and heard Cas snort and mumble something into his pillow.

Meg looked pissed when he opened the door, and she shoved her way in without waiting for him to say anything. “What the fuck were you doing?”

“Putting him to bed,” he said flatly and shut the door.

“You know,” she started, “if you're going to be a cockblock, just say it.”

“He can't even walk, what were you expecting to happen?”

She put down her bag on the couch and walked around the room, hands lingering everywhere. She was at home everywhere, she owned the world. “Drunk cuddling, sleep, waking up naked, and – well, you can probably guess the rest. You spent your afternoon doing just that.”

“Cuddling,” he repeated with a disbelieving grin. “You really have a soft spot for the guy, don't you?”

She stopped and turned to look him in the eye. Her gaze was intense, powerful, royal. “You're protecting his virtue, and you actually took him to bed, both arms holding him like he was made of porcelain. Don't talk to me about soft spots.”

He didn't break eye contact, looked at her, unamused, and raised his palms. “You know what, I'm not arguing with you anymore, just go put on your pyjamas and go to sleep; I'm gonna make sure he's not choking on his own puke.”

“Yeah,” she muttered, taking off her clothes right in front of him. “You do that.”

He tenaciously kept his eyes on the floor, and headed back to the silent bedroom. “Cas?” He murmured instead of knocking.

The only answer he got was loud breathing and light snoring. He walked closer to the bed, or more precisely the large mattress and its three pillows, and crouched to take a better look. Cas was lying on his back, and he pushed him to his side, something about vomit staying stuck in his mouth, stuff he didn't really want to think about right now, or ever.

He tried to look around for a blanket, something to cover Cas' body with, but the room was a big shadow, and he couldn't find a switch. He gave up and left again, but he was stopped by a groan and the noise of fabric rubbing on fabric. He turned around, and Castiel was lying on his back again. That son of a bitch. “Why can't there be just one piece of cake thing about you?” He went back to the bed and crouched again. He pulled Cas' body back on its side, and tried to get the two remaining pillows stuck behind his back so that they would keep him in place. The hip under his palm was furiously hot, even through the tee Castiel was wearing. “You probably don't need a blanket anyway.” The warmth was spreading to his naturally cold fingers, right up to his cheeks. He took his hand off, but the cool fire remained. He watched Castiel breathe, and once he was sure he wouldn't fall back on his back, he got up and left once and for all, shutting the door behind himself.

Meg had turned of the lights, and was lying on the couch, wearing silky booty shorts and a tank top, arms crossed under her head, one leg bent, exposing her pale thigh. Dean had to hand it to her, she knew how to put on a show; and she wasn't even moving. He allowed himself to look for five seconds, during which a smirk surfaced on her dark lips, and then mentally shook himself to take off some clothes himself. He only kept his boxers and t-shirt on, and joined her. “How are we gonna do this,” he asked.

She looked up at him, her lashes heavy on her dark brown eyes, and cocked an eyebrow.

“I'm not sleeping on the floor,” he explained. “So unless you want to wake up with your back hurting like a bitch, we're gonna have to peacefully coexist for a night.”

“Go share his bed why won't you, at least you can make sure I won't walk in there in the night to take his precious virtue away.”

He sighed for – what, the hundredth time that day? – and decided he didn't want to waste time on her bitchery when he could spend it sleeping. He grabbed one of her hands and pulled her up, probably hurting her shoulder as he did so, but at this point, he really didn't care anymore.

“Ow! Jesus what the hell is your problem?”

He let his back hit the couch, and pulled her on top of him, her back against her chest. “There.” He remembered Castiel telling him he'd leave a blanket for him, maybe the second time they'd seen each other, and he fished under the sofa to find a green duvet carefully folded there. He draped it over the both of them, and secured his arms around Meg's waist. “And if I feel you moving, I will strangle you,” he warned before closing his eyes.

Meg growled something under her breath, fidgeting, mostly to bother him. “You better not try anything, Winchester.”

He huffed out a laugh. “As if that would bother you.”

 


	12. Huh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's six am, birds are singing outside my window, I fucked up, and this chapter is short and too fluffy and I've been writing for seven hours straight and erasing at least 5,000 words because it was rubbish, but I promised someone I'd try to update today, so there you go.  
> I don't need them to be canon to write domestic bliss. Badam tshh.

Dean woke up with an odd smile on his face. He was warm, he was comfortable. He knew there was a window open because he could hear the birds and there was a gentle breeze, but he was protected by the green duvet Castiel had left there just for him. In this perfect moment, he didn't have a past, he didn't have a future, he was just content in knowing there was wind, and he didn't have to care because he had a blanket.

These moments never lasted very long, and this one was no exception. Something sharp dug in his ribcage, and weight was gathering on his crotch. He opened his eyes reluctantly, and was whipped in the face by long blunt hair.

“Didn't mean to wake you.” Meg deigned to spare him a glance and got up, supporting her weight with her hands, on his chest. “I'd apologize, but, you know.”

“Yeah,” he grunted sleepily, and covered his face with green warmth. “You're a bitch.”

“I'd have gone for vicious, cruel, evil maybe. Bitch is a bit rude,” she mockingly scolded him. “You can go back to sleep, I'm leaving.”

His head poked out from underneath the blanket and he popped one curious eye open. “What time is it?”

She found her phone on the floor, comfortable in her underwear. “Too late for breakfast,” she sighed. “Sleep, Dean,” she gazed at him, more serious than he'd ever seen her. “You look like you've been awake for a century.”

He wasn't going to argue. The last few days had been busy enough to be worth at least three human weeks. He certainly felt like he could doze off for at least twelve more hours, he even had trouble keeping his eyes open long enough to deny anything. He rearranged his blanket so that it covered him from his toes to his shoulders, and heard Meg's movements turn into mere background noises as he lost himself in the tight hug of the duvet.

 

The next time he woke up that day, he felt weirdly moist. Wiggling in his cocoon set his skin on fire and he realized he was too hot, way too hot. His limbs twisted until they were set free, and the pulled the blanket completely off his body. Open air wasn't that much better, but at least he wasn't bathing in his own sweat anymore. Summer was here early, freaking California. The hair that grew on the nape of his neck was damp; he wiped it with his hand, and wiped his hand on his boxers. He felt disgusting, and he needed a haircut.

He also needed to swallow a gallon of water, piss, shower and eat as soon as possible, but he had a few people to check on first. He walked to Cas' room, eyeing the fridge and the sink on his way there, and knocked on the door. “Cas? You awake?” A muffled groan was heard. It could have meant pretty much anything; pain, hunger, despair, even pleasure, if it was possible for someone experiencing their first hangover to feel anything better than hope to die quickly. “Are you okay in there?” Same groan, a bit longer this time. Huh. Dean turned the doorknob and opened the door ajar. He lowered his voice. “Cas?”

Castiel was on his stomach, still wearing denim pants and freaking socks, and he was trying to shove his pillow away, pulling on his tee to get it off. Apart from that, the room stunk of alcohol and sweat, and it didn't really make Dean want to explore the mystery it still was to him. A stinking mystery. “Okay, you get to shower first,” he told no one.

He got by Cas' side and grabbed him by the shoulder to turn him over. There was a short shot of blue as his eyes opened and closed again immediately as a reaction to the light. “Everything hurts, huh?”

Cas nodded, the crook of his elbow covering his eyes.

“That's probably the last thing you wanna do right now, but you have to get up and shower. And eat. It'll feel better after.”

Cas slowly slid his arm away from his face, and blinked a wrinkled eye open. “Can you certify that?” His voice was hoarse and he coughed a few times to clear his throat.

“Trust me,” he suppressed a yawn, his eyes watering up anyway, “I'm a graduate drunkard, I know how it works. Sort of.” Castiel tried to laugh, but his face paled and a hand thoughtlessly covered his mouth. “Don't throw up,” Dean begged, “please don't throw up.” He watched and dreaded Castiel's reaction, and sighed with relief when color resurfaced on his face and his hand moved away. “Can you get up?”

“No.” It was immediate, inflexible.

“Yes you can.”

“If I do my liver will explode and I will die.”

Dean rolled his eyes under – well, above – Castiel's deadly serious stare. “Don't you think you're exaggerating a little?”

The shake of Castiel's head was solemn.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, noticing once again it irritatingly still hadn't stopped growing. “I'm gonna give you a choice. Either you can let me help you get to your bathroom and let you shower peacefully, or you can sulk like an overgrown baby and I'll throw you over my shoulder and dump you in your bathtub and I'll spray you with cold water until you sober up. Your call.”

Castiel squinted at him like a wet kitten and Dean grinned, until he remembered he was crouching over a thrity year old man who had gotten drunk for the first time and was now being a prick. Cas mumbled something Dean couldn't make out, not even nearly. “What was that?”

“The first one,” he grudgingly repeated.

“Shocker.”

Helping Cas up took four minutes and seven vomit fake alarms. Remembering how long it had taken them to walk twenty feet the night before, Dean opted for taking as much of Cas' weight as he could on himself, and he trudged to the only door he hadn't opened yet in the apartment in less than two uncomfortable minutes, during which he sweated even more and the cold water that clung to his skin became a nightmare quicker than he'd thought. Why was he even doing this? He should have been having breakfast, or a bath, but no, he was carrying a middle-aged idiot who drank like a twelve year old around his burning hot apartment. Splendid. At least Cas mildly helped when Dean had to put him in his tub, or else that would have taken a whole hour and one of them would have killed the other. Cas was taking off his tee like the grownup he was supposed to be, while Dean got his belt off and pulled on his pants, careful not to take his underwear with them. He cursed at the ceiling when he saw that Cas still hadn't gotten his t-shirt over his head, and he pulled his socks off. Next time that was happening, he was letting Meg deal with her responsabilities. Where was she anyway?

He watched Cas as he finally got rid of the only piece of clothing he'd taken care of, and wondered how a guy who read Russian books all day, who wore clothes that were too big for him and a frigging _trenchcoat_ could maintain such a lean body. The muscles of his thighs seemed to be the most developed, maybe he ran or something. His stomach was flat and there were no well-defined abs there, like Dean had, but his arms were strong and his skin tone was slightly darker than Dean's. Not that any of that mattered. Or that Dean was still needed in the room. It was just – yeah, he'd better leave him to it now. He cleared his throat. “Think you can manage it on your own from this point?”

“Are you not planning on staying?”

Dean barely even registered the now familiar blush that settled on his cheeks. The nerve of that hungover son of a bitch. “You're – you... you know,” he faked assurance as he walked backwards in the direction of the door, “you should be kissing my ass right now.”

“Not helping.” Cas flashed him a lazy smile and water fell down on him as Dean made it out of the room.

 _Did he..?_ Obviously not. No. _He did though_.

Dean put a gag on his subconscious. Subconscious was overrated. _Food_ , now food wasn't overrated. Never. His stomach growled when his eyes inevitably found the kitchen. The fridge was his first aim. Orange juice, bacon, eggs, butter... yes, his stomach approved of that. No cheese though. Charlie would have gone mad.

Thinking of Charlie, he remembered people were expecting him on the other side of the living room, and he went back to the couch to get his phone, heart-wrenchingly abandoning the alimentary heaven for ten seconds. He dialed Sam's number, and an exhausted grunt answered. “Sammy?”

“ _Dean... Do you need me to open the door for you? Can't it wait?_ ”

So Cas wasn't the only one having a rough morning. “No, no, I'm just calling you to tell you I'm gonna check on Cas this morning, he's not well after last night and he probably has no idea what to do, so I'm just...”

“ _Cool, fine, great_ ,” the voice at the other end said flatly. “ _Just call when you're coming back. And call Charlie._ ”

He chuckled. “Have you had cheese and chili pepper yet?”

A disgusted whine was followed by words soaked in fatigue. “ _I fucking hate you Dean._ ”

The line went dead. Dean smirked at his phone, pleased with himself more than he was allowed to be, until his stomach reminded him of his priorities. He ambled back to the kitchen and collected all his ingredients. He hadn't cooked in a while, he was used to cold tin cans, and Charlie's pancakes, more recently, but he was confident in his skills. He opened cupboards and drawers until he found pans and knives, and he fried the bacon and toasted bread. He started humming something random, and then he started singing softly as the crackle of the bacon covered his voice.

His heart leaped in his chest when he heard Cas call out. “Dean!”

He turned off the fire under the meat. “Yeah?”

“I don't have clothes.”

Oh, right. Right. “Hang on!”

Castiel's room was strangely ordered, now that he looked at it and not the sleeping mass in it. With the state the rest of the place was in and everything, he'd sort of expected the bedroom to be a mine field; but the room was relatively clean. The furniture was white or light blue, like the walls, and the floor was dark oak. The window let in a lot of light, but it was difficult to see anything through it as it was high on the wall. Apart from the so called bed that really didn't appeal to him, it was inviting, refreshing in a way. There was a big white wardrobe on his right and a blue shelf with books of all colors and sizes against the wall on his left. A neat pile of papers rested next to the mattress, and on top of that pile was a blueish greenish table lamp, that color people could never agree on. He found it green.

He opened the wardrobe. _There_ was the mine field. He found a new pair of blue boxers and the tee he'd seen him wear on the Colombo night. _Living is easy with eyes closed_. He contemplated getting him some pants as well, but it would have been unfair since he wasn't wearing any himself, and the guy probably just wanted to be as comfortable as possible anyway.

He wasn't done knocking on the bathroom door when Cas pulled it open for him, a white towel around his hips, water dripping from his hair onto his face. Dean stared at the floor and handed him his clothes.

“Merci beaucoup,” Cas took his clothes and shut the door again. Didn't look that bad. Not his – no, the hangover. Obviously. The hangover didn't look that bad. He looked good. Well, he looked like he was doing better. Hangover and all, alcohol, thing. Yeah. Freaking French.

Dean turned the fire back on under the bacon, and added the eggs. It smelled so good. So good he forgot about how disgusting he was, and the idea of a shower was the last one on his mind.

“Is that Strawberry Fields Forever you're singing?”

Dean startled a little and turned around. “Um, yeah, apparently so. It was just, your shirt.”

Castiel looked down at himself and smiled. His eyes came back up to rest on Dean, and then on what was behind Dean. “Are you cooking?” He didn't sound outraged nor excited, just surprised.

“Yeah,” he couldn't suppress a proud smile. “Figured you'd need some food. And I haven't eaten bacon in a while.” Cas nodded and came to sit on a stool. It felt out of place and yet oddly casual, cooking in Castiel's kitchen while the man watched him. Maybe it was because they'd been in that situation before, even though the roles had been reversed. “Feeling better?”

He nodded again. “I didn't drink that much you know.”

Dean snorted. “Maybe, but not much is still a lot when you're used to not at all.” He got back to his cooking, the eggs were almost ready. “You were pretty incoherent last night.”

He heard Cas shifting on his stool behind his back. “I can't remember saying anything preposterous.”

“Can you remember saying anything though?” Dean looked at him from behind his shoulder, an eye still watching the eggs starting to shake on the pan.

Castiel stopped fidgeting and stared. “A couple of things, yes.” Dean escaped his gaze to put their breakfasts on plates he'd found. “I remember you telling me you'd give me your number.”

Dean handed Cas his plate and poured orange juice into two glasses. “I don't know how that futuristic monster works,” he explained when he saw sadened blue eyes drown in orange. The coffee maker was the only advanced piece of technology in the apartment, and he had a firm belief that it anything had more than ten buttons on its front, then one of these must be a self-destruction command, and he wasn't messing with that. “And you said you didn't have a phone.”

He bent over the counter to pick up another stool, and took it to his side over the bar under Castiel's dazed gaze. “Indeed,” he let out, bafflement out of his face now that Dean was sitting across from him, swallowing his breakfast with a bright smile, his stomach singing hymns. “But that's still a step.”

Dean ignored the hardly desguised innuendo in favor of retreiving the bread from the toaster and drowning it in butter. “There you go,” he gave Cas a slice and bit into his own with a more than satisfied groan. “I have to say, that's the best bread I've ever toasted.”

Cas chewed slowly. “Thanks, I bought it myself.”

Dean looked at him, his cheeks poking out of his face with all the food he'd stuffed there, eyes tired and amused, and he laughed.

“What's funny,” Castiel asked, gulping down what he could without tearing his esophagus apart.

“Nothing. Eat your breakfast. And you should drink water.”

They finished their meal silently, Dean's papillae relishing each bite, and Castiel glancing at him every now and them hesitantly.

Dean then collected their dishes and put them in the sink. He thought about washing them, but no, he wasn't going that far.

“I'll make coffee if you wash the dishes.”

“You'll make coffee anyway.”

Cas seemed thoughtful, trying to figure out whether he could actually live without cafeine right now. He gave up soon enough. “Alright, please wash the dishes?”

“No,” Dean said, sure of himself. “I saved you from Meg, carried you to bed, arranged your freaking pillows because you can't sleep on your side, carried you to your bathroom, made you breakfast, I'm not washing the dishes.” There was a bright smile on Castiel's face when Dean checked his reaction.

“Alright, I'll make coffee, you can take a shower.”

“Actually, if you're doing okay, I think I'd better get home, my brother drank more than you, I should cook onions to wake him up.”

“Oh.” He didn't hide his disappointment. “Of course, I understand.” Dean nodded to himself and started gathering his things. “Although,” he stopped what he was doing and looked at Castiel. “You could shower here and I could show you more drawings?”

Dean thought about Sammy, about all the misery he and Charlie could make his grumpy little brother go through, and about the clean clothes waiting for him in his bag. Behind his back was the room with the green leaves, and hidden somewhere were a thousand pieces of art he probably needed to begin with before asking to see the canvas.

Huh.


	13. Your burgers are damn fine.

There was no denying that Cas was something different. He was capable of using the word 'cantankerous' while tripping on his own feet, and could adopt a seductive pose while smiling like a five year old playing with a dog. Whatever it was he was doing, one half of him tackled the task with absolute seriousness, and the other half seemed to be prepared to do anything to sabotage the accomplishment of said task. The coffee he'd made had been divine, until he'd accidentally spilled three tons of sugar – give or take an ounce – into the coffee pot. And that was just one example.

Dean was sitting on the floor, after they'd agreed to move from the kitchen to avoid staining the drawings with coffee or grease. He was looking at a drawing imitating an ivory statue of a woman with long and curly hair, smiling softly at him with dimples in her cheeks. Her irises weren't sculpted, her eyes were just white globes that observed everything with neutral kindness. She was only visible from her waist up, but the fabric that floated from her shoulders, light as silk, clearly showed she was wearing a summer dress. Dean had already seen white statues that looked so pure and smooth he'd been afraid to touch them, with his fingers covered in mud and blood that corrupted everything they brushed. The resemblance was off-putting. There were dozens of these, from different angles and with different shades, some of them showed the whole body, some of them only a hand, but the one Dean was holding was definitely the best.

"These are all quite ancient," Castiel told him as he sat by his side. "I made most of them in French class, I must have been fifteen. And a bit stupid. I thought I was being clever."

"How do you mean?"

"I told everyone it was my interpretation of Mother Mary from Let it Be."

Dean looked at the drawing one more time. "Are you a Beatles guy?"

"My brother is." They looked at each other. Cas was sitting too close and Dean more than suspected he'd done it on purpose. Cas was some smooth bastard. "I was never really into music, but I've been looking up at him for as long as I can remember. He plays the guitar, knows all the songs. I'm only good at drawing." He put his arms around his knees. "It was a statue of some saint in the church where my father took us every Sunday. I wanted to sculpt my own, but sculpture isn't part of my natural talents, so I drew it, again and again, and when Gabriel asked what it was, I told him it was her."

Dean saw him smile fondly and could only imagine a teenage Castiel, with spots and a briefcase filled with art stuff, proudly wearing his Beatles shirt around school. Sammy had never done any of that. He thought Aerosmith was aggressive and loud, he refused to wear leather, and he strongly disapproved of Dean's 'Bond girls'. Sam had always been a force of nature, rejecting the codes their father had tried to pass on to them, and inevitably pushing Dean away with it.

“Gabriel? What's up with the fancy names?”

Castiel startled, gone deep in his memories. His eyes were wide when they came back to Dean's. “My father was a devout man,” he explained. “He would have named my older brother Barachiel if my mother hadn't intervened. They agreed that Gabriel was an acceptable compromise.”

“ _Barachiel?_ How do you even pronounce that?”

Castiel chuckled. “We were all very well educated when it comes to anything you can find in the Bible. Barachiel was my father's favorite angel, the angel of thunder. It was his biggest regret in life to be called Charles,” he said with the same nostalgic smile, and Dean couldn't suppress a whole-hearted laugh. Cas looked at him surprisedly, but he laughed with him anyway.

“So, how come you're Castiel?” He asked when he got his breath back. “Wasn't there any other name in the Bible that was humanish?”

Cas' smile slowly turned gray on his face as he stayed focused on his feet. “My mother died in childbirth.” He dropped it like a gentle bomb, the kind that exploded without making any noise, and killed you before you could realize what was happening, without any fear or pain. “Castiel is another name for Cassiel, the angel of tears and solitude. My father named my twin brother Jimmy because she'd always insisted she wanted at least one child who wouldn't have to carry a strange name his whole life. We're his last goodbye to her.”

Even silence held its breath. The tinnitus in the room intensified and wormed its way through their ears until Dean couldn't stand it anymore.

“Where are your brothers,” he questioned softly.

Castiel turned to look at him, head crooked, as if inspecting him. “Gabriel was in Europe the last time I heard of him. He claimed he was going to France for a few months when he turned twenty, he sent a few letters, and then he just disappeared. Jimmy and I, I guess we were left alone after that, our big brother was gone and our father had never played a big part in our lives. We lived in his house for five years, and then we went to college together, attending the same classes, sleeping in the same room... when Jimmy found Amelia, we agreed that we had to start learning how to live without each other. He lives in Illinois. He visits during Summer, and I join them every Christmas. We exchange letters as I am an acute technophobic, he sends pictures of Amelia and Claire... we keep in touch.”

Dean nodded slowly all the way through his speech, as if he understood it all and could relate. The truth was, apart from growing up without a mother, most of Castiel's tale was a foreign concept to him. He was the big brother, he'd always done everything with his dad, and even after Sammy had left, a week had never passed without an hour long phone call between the two of them. All Castiel had of his mother was his father's grief printed on his ID, and a twin brother who had left him behind to start his own family, a family where Castiel didn't have a place, and yet the only family he had left.

So when the room drowned in silence again, Dean asked the only question he could think of. “Claire?”

“Claire Novak,” Cas corrected him proudly. “She's Jimmy's daughter. She speaks better French than I do,” he said with a genuine smile. “She draws too, and she plays the piano. Her teachers never know what to say about her, I think no one really knows how to handle geniuses when jealousy isn't an option.”

Dean didn't have to think about the next question, it came naturally, now that the subject was becoming lighter. “Are you identical twins?” Cas nodded with a smile that said there were funny stories behind that. “Did you pretend to be each other and stuff?”

Cas laughed. “If twins ever tell you they never did, they're probably doing it to you as they speak.” He glanced at Dean from the corner of his eye. “We had different time tables for only one year, and I think I spent more than half of it on Jimmy's chair.” He was playing with his own fingers, drumming on his knees, flexing them in every way possible. “Then we grew up, fooling teachers became boring and girls became our new targets, that's when I put an end to it. I think I stole the funniest part of having a twin from him.”

“So you don't do girls at all.”

Dean looked in front of him with a frown. Had he just said that? What the –

“I don't do people at all,” Cas answered, eyes on Dean's lips. “Well, I fell in love with quite a few fictional characters, but I believe that was never a choice, with all the books I've had to read.”

Dean huffed out a laugh, but his mind was thinking. Was Cas telling him he'd just been fooling around the whole time with him? Or was he trying to call Dean special or something? The thought made him quiver with fear.

“Do you want more coffee?”

Dean looked at the empty cup he now realized he'd been sipping from the whole time. He'd probably swallowed fifty grams of sugar. “I uh – I'm good, thanks.”

“You didn't need to drink it if it was insipid, you know,” Castiel grinned at him. “If there is anything I will never pretend to master, it is cooking. Of any kind.”

“Yeah,” Dean remembered the flabby pasta. “I think that's a wise decision.”

They chuckled companionably. When Castiel dropped the seduction act, Dean realized he was actually a nice guy. He never pushed it too far anyway, it wasn't like he'd shoved his tongue down Dean's throat or anything, and if he felt the urge to do so, he could ignore it for more than ten minutes to have a normal conversation. He might not share Castiel's interest, but maybe he could try to be friends with the guy. His family already liked him, Meg even a little too much, and he was fucked up. Not as much as Dean, but then he'd have had to have been a suicidal junkie who turned into a mass murderer on full moons to even come close.

Cas went back to his bedroom to go get another file, and this time it was a series of feathers from a hundred different birds and butterfly wings. Then they agreed the couch would be more comfortable, and they looked at weird objects he'd come across in museums. Then the Beatles. Then hybrids, and Dean told him Meg would like those.

“She draws stuff like that.”

“Is she an artist?”

“Tattoo artist.”

Then they looked at the last drawing in that file, a horse's body with a girafe's head, and then it was over. Castiel put them all back in the faded red file, and dropped it on the floor.

“Aren't you gonna get another one?”

“No.”

Dean gave acceptance a shot. She missed.

“Why not?”

Cas smiled. “Because these are nothing more than practice. They don't matter. The rest does.”

Dean looked to his left, through the hole in the wall, then back at Cas. “I'm not getting a glimpse of the canvas, am I?”

Cas chuckled. “You're not.”

Well. He'd tried. They found themselves stuck, looking at each other one more time. Cas' stubble oddly made him look a bit younger, less mature. That and the Beatles shirt, he looked completely different from the man he'd first met, on this very couch, about a month ago. It was a weird thought. It had never occurred to him that he could ever meet that strange guy in a trenchcoat again. Their first encounter had been a mistake, he was a neighboor like any other and Dean had never paid any attention to him. And yet there he was, and this staring contest was becoming ridiculous.

“You know,” Cas murmured, “I've read it in a Lithuanian science book that prolonged eye contact is a tell of either lust or murder urges.” Dean's stomach digested itself. “You've had plenty of occasions to kill me, and yet it hasn't escaped my notice that I am still breathing. You might want to explain yourself.” The playful smirk Dean had become familiar with was dancing a freaking lambada on Cas' lips.

Dean could handle innuendos and semi-inappropriate smug grins, but direct confrontation left the air punched out of his lungs, his throat raw and his mouth dry. No wonder he didn't recognize his own voice. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Well I didn't formulate any question, but assuming I understand what you mean all the same, I think my position on the matter is quite clear.” Dean could almost see his pupils widen. “I have no intention to kill you. Not that any attempt to do so would ever be successful.”

Dean's knotted and twisted stomach sunk in his intestines. “Do you really think your chances are so small?”

Cas blinked purposefully. “You climb trees by night, and I presume you know how to break into people's houses. I'd break a limb if I tried either of those things. Not to mention the three inches and twenty pounds of muscle you have on me. I'm confident if I aimed a gun at you, you'd find a way to strangle me with it.”

Dean swallowed thickly. That was probably true. “You can't strangle people with a gun.”

Castiel raised one eyebrow. “ _I_ can't.”

He frowned and felt relief wash over him as he found a way out from under the weight Castiel's stare had become. “That what I said.”

Cas looked down first, his brow furrowed, and Dean followed him in his escape, finding his phone on the kitchen counter and staring at it obstinately. “Well, yes,” Castiel stuttered, “but what I meant was that – you used that pronoun to refer to all of the human race, not me in particular, and even though it is fairly certain I couldn't do anything with a gun but find new acrobatic ways to shoot myself in the elbow, you might be more talented.”

Dean looked at the pile of clothes he'd made the previous night, under which he'd not so cleverly hidden his gun; but then Meg wouldn't have questioned it, and Cas had been supposed to spend his day trying to escape a pounding head. He smiled unconvincingly at the thought. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” It was easier to talk now that he didn't have those baby blues inspecting the corners of his soul. He spoke to the floor and the walls, even to his own hands, anywhere but to his right. “'I don't really know much about you but I reckon you'd be good at killing people.' Not such a turn on, Cas.”

He saw Castiel's faint shrug in the corner of his eye. “An attempt at one, perhaps.” His tone lowered. “I'm not exactly used to dispensing them.”

Dean thoroughly kept the meaning of these words out the gate that connected his ears to his brain, and felt his stomach relax. It'd squeezed around its insides to tightly it now felt completely empty, as though everything he'd ever eaten had suddenly been disintegrated. He got up silently and went to the kitchen under Castiel's mildly alarmed scrutiny to pick up his phone. It was four o'clock. How long had they been sitting there? He should have checked the time when he'd talked to Sammy.

“Dean?”

He turned around before he could think about it. “Cas?”

The dark-haired and confused pseudo angel opened his mouth to ask an obviously prepared question, but he closed it again before any sound could come out, and frowned deeper instead. “You call me Cas. All the time.”

Dean remembered deciding to do so after getting a headache from all the times he'd mentally pronounced Castiel. Had he just caught up on that? “I do.” That was a stupid answer, but – well, he did. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Cas said quickly. His head was crooked, and he bent it to the other side. “It's just... everyone does that. Everyone except Jimmy always calls me Cas.”

Dean wasn't sure he could see what Cas – Castiel? now he was going to think about it every time – was trying to say, so he just let it go. “Well it's shorter. I don't know, there's a certain ring to it I guess. Are you hungry?”

His blue eyes glistened when they came up to meet Dean's. “Can you make sandwiches again?”

Dean didn't find it in himself to laugh, but he grinned mildly. The way they could move from 'my whole family's left me and I think you're a murderer' to 'your burgers are damn fine' felt surreal. A lot of things about Cas did, from the face Dean had woken up to a month earlier, to the fantasy world he'd pulled his apartment from, and obviously the fight between his two dichotomous personalities: the dubious predator who leaned against doors and spoke French, and the clumsy virgin covered in paint who got drunk on beer. Now he'd even had a glimpse of a third Cas, the one who never had a mother, who could hardly make up for that with a distant father, who'd lost one brother and been separated from a twin.

“Sure,” he replied easily. He started poking around the cupboards, hoping to find tomatoes, meat, bread, anything edible at that point. “If you've got all I need.” It was pretty clear he didn't. Dean had no idea how Castiel fed, all he found was pasta, lots and lots of pasta in a drawer, and a hundred different brands of sauces in another. Could human beings live on pasta only? He wasn't a doctor, but still... Sam would know. “Okay I'm gonna be honest with you,” he assumed a serious air. Cas braced himself, a slight look of panic in his eyes. “That is the most impressive collection of pasta I have ever seen, but I can't make a sandwich out of it. Maybe some pasta.”

He could see Castiel's relief pour out of his pores. “Well, I can't tell you I'm not disappointed,” he sighed. “I don't see what else you could ever ask for.”

"Don't tell Sammy I ever asked you that, but don't you have vegetables in here?"

Cas winced and apologized with an embarrassed face. "I don't touch anything that needs more than thirty seconds in a microwave or a hundred milliliters of boiling water. It's better for everyone."

"Not if you want a sandwich you multilingual idiot."

Castiel looked at his own hands with intently focused eyes. This was a problem he was going to fix if this was the last thing he did. Dean could see a light bulb come to life above his head when he raised it again. "We could go grocery shopping?"

Yeah. Not happening. "It's Sunday," he said instead. The look of sheer disappointment on Cas' face would have made Sam's eyes all watery. "Look, I think we've got everything we need in Sam's fridge, I could smuggle you in, but you'll probably have to face Charlie and her endless list of personal questions, and Sam will complain about his hair like every hangover morning." Castiel's body divided in two parts: his head said yes but his butt sunk deeper in his seat. Dean could understand him; it'd taken him a while to get used to Charlie's personality too. "Meg won't be there, in case that makes it any better."

Castiel's internal struggle made place for full curiosity as he looked up at Dean. "I thought she was your friend."

It wasn't accusatory, just surprised. "Yeah, she is."

"Yet whenever you mention her it's to warn me about her." Dean turned around again to mess with the wooden doors of the kitchen cupboards. And yeah, maybe that was true, but he hadn't done it without reason, he was just trying to keep everyone from getting hurt. "And she's the reason why you slept here tonight, isn't she?"

"Of course not," he couldn't even convince himself. "You couldn't walk or talk, no way I was letting you die on your freaking bed so that Meg could find you with vomit in your throat in the morning."

He willed himself to turn back to Cas and crossed his arms over his chest. He'd possibly saved this guy's life, he didn't owe him a freaking explanation. If anything, Cas owed him dinner. Or not, maybe something else like a favor, or a massage. Well, no, favor was good.

"I had pillows keeping me from falling on my back. That was really uncomfortable by the way." Dean glared at him with all he had, challenging him to complain. "Don't misunderstand, I am grateful for... keeping me from choking on my own esophagus; but you're not using that as an excuse."

"You're starting to piss me off you know."

Cas smiled like he'd just told the best joke of his life and let it go. "I think I'll let you go back to your brother, I'll be fine with pasta for one more day. Besides, I have to work on my canvas, and I can't do it with you around."

The smug smile on Castiel's face told Dean that yeah, he'd mentioned the painting on purpose, that son of a bitch.

"Okay," Dean put all of his _I don't give a crap_ attitude into that word. "I'll just cook for Sammy and Charlie then."

Cas was hiding it well enough, but there was the same frustration he was feeling, somewhere in the blue of his eyes. _Ha._

"I'm probably going to finish the painting today, so I will certainly be too busy to think about food anyway."

The message was clear: _two can play that game_.

"Alright," Dean shrugged, "guess I'd better go then."

"Indeed," Cas confirmed.

They had a glaring contest, waiting for one of them to outbid again.

"Are you trying to teleport?" Cas asked after a while. "Because it's not working."

Dean suddenly acted like he'd been electrocuted. He grabbed his stuff on the floor, didn't bother getting dressed, and found Castiel holding the door for him when he got there.

"That's goodbye," Cas smiled.

"Yeah," Dean grunted. "Try not to let twenty year olds get you drunk while I'm away."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

Dean stopped, the clothes in his arms starting to escape him. He didn't really care about his pants falling to the ground, but the gun nested in the middle was another story. "What," he asked hurriedly. Cas handed him his phone, he must have left it in the kitchen. "Oh, thanks. I'm, could you just – put it on top of the pile?"

Cas dropped it on top of his shirt. "I'm still waiting for a number for that thing."

"Will do," Dean excused himself. He could feel his gun threatening to fall from his arms, and that was just not on. "Hey, one last thing." Castiel opened his eyes wide, letting all the light from the large windows in the corridor hit them. "Could you um, knock on the door for me? My hands are kinda full."

"Of course."

Castiel picked up his keys from the shelf he also used as a surface to stuff more papers, because _he_ was used to these doors that thought they had power over humans, and he accompanied Dean to Sam's door, where he knocked. Once. Twice.

The third time, a Sam that looked like he was don't with this universe answered. "Dean, I thought I'd told you to call Charlie, why do you keep – oh, hi, Cas."

Cas was about to answer and Dean was asking the skies why they had made the load in his arms invisible when they heard Charlie fall from what must have been a bed, and call out. "Is Cas here?"

Everything about Sam's face was apologetic when he replied, eyes traveling between the both of them, standing in the middle of the corridor, in boxers and tees. "Yeah, he's here."

"Is he with Dean? Are they – hey, guys." Charlie looked as fresh as the day she was born, she had no bags under her eyes, no heavy limbs soaked in sleep, just lively skin and fire hair. She made Dean tired just looking at her. "Are you staying with us, Cas?"

"Um, I, no. I have to work on, something."

Dean reveled in seeing him tumble on his words. The guy was such a smartass all the time, but put him in the room with more than two people, and he turned into a giant turtle. That was frankly hilarious.

"What is it?" She enquired. "Maybe we can help, why don't you stay?"

"I uh..." Cas looked at Dean helplessly. The panic in his eyes would have been funny if it hadn't been for the genuine misery he saw there.

"Come on Charlie," he spoke for him. "Leave the guy alone, it's bad enough you got him his first hangover, a man has to work."

He didn't need to check out Cas' eyes to know there was gratitude there. He forced his way in the apartment, shoving his way past the barrier of Sam's body, and let his belongings fall into the bag in Charlie's room, ignoring the sounds of voices he could still hear emerging from the entrance.

When he got back to the living room, Castiel was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not making it up, according to wikipedia, Cassiel is the angel of tears and solitude.


	14. Pack your things, I'll be right back.

Sam crawled back to his room as soon as his majestic presence ceased to be required. Charlie got them two cups of steaming, black, blessedly sugar-free coffee, and explained Dean that they had kept drinking for a couple more hours after he'd left with Meg and Cas. Charlie's body had long gotten accustomed to sleepless nights spent playing video games and regular drinking days, she could go for days without so much as a nap and no one would ever know. Sam, on the other hand, had just begun occasional drinking, and he'd always watched his sleeping schedule, even when they used to spend most of their nights in the back seat of their father's car. When he'd woken up that morning, Charlie had already had breakfast, been to her boxing lesson, and watched half of a Lord of the Rings movie.

“That's my sixth cup of coffee in the last twenty four hours,” she said with doom in her voice, “I'm gonna die of a heart attack.”

Dean huffed out a laugh and looked at the shapes the steam above his cup was forming. “Nah, you'll die by the sword, dressed as an elf. It'll be like one of those onstage murders where someone's replaced a plastic blade with a real one, and it'll make the papers and I'll give an interview and make a statement.”

“Wow,” she stirred her coffee with a spoon, “I'm glad you've already recovered from my death thanks to the momentary fame it will bring you.”

He smirked and dipped a finger in his drink, before bringing it to his mouth. Still too hot. “Come on Charlie, you know I'll never recover from your death. I'll even make sure I tear up and everything when they bring the cameras here.”

“I'm ignoring you.” She tried to sip from her coffee, burnt her tongue, and put her cup down with a sigh before collapsing on the table. “I'm so tired,” she told the room, her voice muffled by the arm protecting her face from hitting the wood.

“Could have fooled me.” He looked at the pool of red hair that was surrounding her head. He couldn't help smiling; finally, Charlie looked like a kid. Her lively green eyes and her sheer enthusiasm about life hid it well, but Dean knew she was carrying the weight of responsabilities, bills and debts just as much as his brother; and it was unspeakably satisfying to see her send it all to Hell for a few minutes. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

She grunted something against the table.

Dean snorted and blurted out meaningless syllables in response.

“Careful, you're gonna break something with that sass,” she said a bit more clearly. “Three hours.”

“Right.” He pushed her hair around in search of her face and grabbed her by the jaw to force her to look at him. He grinned at the irritation in her eyes and her squashy cheeks under his fingers. “You're going back to bed, kiddo.”

She pushed his arm away and rubbed at her jaw. “No it's fine,” she drawled. “I can wait. Besides, I've got papers to sort through and stuff to organize, I'll go to bed in a few hours.”

“No you won't,” he took her coffee away and glared at her with as much challenge as he could master. “Whatever it is you've gotta do, I'll do it, you sleep.”

“Dean. They're bills. You don't _do_ bills.”

Oh come on. How complicated could it be? If Cas and his lunatic brain hadn't already been thrown out, if the pianist kid could take care of it himself, he could do it too. He could do it with his eyes closed. And he could sing Ozzy Osbourne at the same time too.

“No offense,” Charlie went on, “but I'm not putting my internet connexion in your clueless hands.”

He scowled. “Hey, screw you, I can do this.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Dean, look, it's okay, you don't have to do anything. I only need a couple hours, maybe a sandwich, I'll be done before you finish an episode of Game of Thrones.”

He stared at her for a while, his brow furrowed and his lips parted. “You want me to play housewife?”

“You know I didn't mean it like that,” she went to pick up a pile of envelopes from the small table near the couch. “I'm just tired. I need to take care of this, you don't have to cook if you don't want to, you can sit and watch, or play some music, I just need to get through this pile and then I'll go to bed.” She looked at him and massaged her own temples. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, can we please just order something in and – maybe you can help? What do you wanna eat?” She got up again and went to the kitchen. “We've got lots of take out menus, Chinese, Italian, Indian... you don't like Indian food, do you? You don't look like the type of guy who likes Indian. We could just get some pizza. Is Sam awake?” She was giving the both of them a massive headache. “I think we should order him something anyhow, he's gonna need to eat when he wakes up. You know how he's like when he drinks. We should get him pizza, pizza's always –”

“Charlie.” She froze and turned to look at him. She was definitely more exhausted than he'd thought. “You need to sleep, I can do this.” She shook her head and sent her hair flying around it. “I'm serious. Go get some rest, you can trust me. I'll go through these and I'll cook for Sam, you're getting up early tomorrow morning. Go.”

“Dean, I –”

“Go.”

She held his stare for less than ten seconds, and gave up. “You need to make three piles, get things addressed to Sam on one side and things for me on the other. Except for the pink envelopes, I take care of all of them. Anything from the phone company goes to Sam, so do the envelopes with a blue square on the top. Then you can open everything and list how much each of us will have to pay on a separate sheet, with the name of the company next to each amount.”

“You said three piles?”

She smiled. “The third one is for when you have so much as the shadow of a doubt.”

 

________________________________________

 

 

The 'not quite certain' pile was like one of the freaking Twin Towers. Three envelopes were addressed to Samuel Winchester, and two to Charlotte Bradbury, the rest was all white paper with an address and nothing more. He looked for blue square or pink anything, but frankly, they all looked the same. Dean opened one of them after contemplating it for a good fifteen minutes, and five pages with numbers printed everywhere came out of it. He'd better not mess with that. He put it all back inside the envelope and observed everything he'd achieved in the past half hour. A great big bunch of nothing, that's what it was.

He hit the tall middle pile with the back of his hand and it soon was like he hadn't touched anything, the papers all went back to their chaotic empire. He got up from his chair, there was one thing he could do, and it wasn't a living room activity. He found the bread, the onions and the meat, and he started cooking. He thought about making an extra sandwich for Cas, he was genuinely worried for his metabolism, but then, overcooked pasta was his punishment for being a secretive asshat when Dean had potentially saved his life. Cas could choke on his starch for all he cared.

“Please tell me that's not food I'm smelling.”

Sammy's heavy steps joined Dean and his smirk in the kitchen, and the giant whined when the smoke of burning meat hit his nostrils.

“A man's gotta eat,” Dean said proudly. “Now it was either that or pizza with every kind of cheese there is on this planet, and pepperoni, and lots of meat.”

“I hate you.”

“You know,” Dean called out as his little brother crossed the room to get to the couch. He heard a loud puff. “Cas doesn't drink and he's holding up better than you.” He put mustard on one sandwich and decided to leave the other one alone. He was a good brother. “He ate his breakfast, showered and made coffee. What have _you_ been doing?”

The answer came slightly muffled. “Praying for a quick death. Where's Meg?”

Dean shrugged at the two plates he was holding. “In a dungeon, probably,” he replied as he sat down on the arm of the couch and put the plate with the mustard-free sandwich on top of Sam's back. “Sit and eat,” he ordered.

 

By five and a half, Sam hadn't straightly speaking sobered up, but his stomach was functioning again, and he could speak coherently enough about mildly important subjects. They were back sitting at the table where all the envelopes were still lying on top of each other, and he was scanning them all, asking Dean to hold some, to read out others, and putting him in charge of the balance of the piles. He did this like a machine, and that was a bit freaky, in a way. Maybe it was because of all that lawyering, he must have been used to dealing with lots of papers that needed filing, and stuff. Dean was given clear orders, they were efficient, working in silence. He liked that. Sometimes he had to take notes and keep up with the flow of envelopes at the same time, the Saminator had no pause button, but he thought he was doing okay.

It was relaxing at the beginning, even pleasant, to stop thinking for a minute and not having to talk nor listen, but it quickly became too repetitive, and eventually, boring. Sam didn't seem to care, he was writing things down and throwing pieces of papers around like it was the sole purpose of his existence, and Dean wondered how he didn't get lost in the complete mess he was making out of everything. It must have been ordered to him, somehow. Watching Sammy take care of bills like he'd never seen his father do was both endearing and scary. When had his little brother become part of the real world?

“So Sam,” he interrupted the silence to distract himself, though the Saminator didn't slow, even a bit. “Any special girl I should know about?”

He got a reaction this time, Sammy frowned at him, three envelopes in his hands and one in his mouth, before resuming his lawyering thingy.

“Hey, don't lie to me,” he insisted, a half grin painted on his features. “You gotta be putting these genes to good use.” Sam snorted. “Is it a dude?”

His brother's eyes rolled, and he blushed slightly. “No,” he huffed out.

Dean put on a mockingly shocked face. “Is it a goat?”

“That's disgusting,” Sammy said flatly. He might not have spent so much time with his big brother, but he knew the technics he liked to use to get to sensible information. Making said information sound like a sweet escape in comparison to its alternatives, that was step one. He wasn't taking offense at whatever Dean could say, he was the bestest at being the most zenest person on this planet.

“Why won't you tell me?”

Sam was starting to pass papers around quicker and quicker, and Dean was certain he was doing it on purpose, to keep him too occupied to pry like he knew how to.

“Is it because she's ugly? You know I won't judge. Appearances don't matter Sammy,” he adopted a cheesy voice with a cheesy smile and cheesy eyes. “Only what's in the heart counts.” All he got was a grin. Dammit. “Nevermind. Let's talk about the waitress I brought home the other night.” He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes as if to remember more clearly. “Man, the noises she could make, it was like –”

“Her name is Jess, okay?”

Dean smiled smugly to himself. He'd still got it. “That's my boy.”

Sam refused to look at him, focusing more than furiously on his task.

Dean let silence live for about forty seconds, thinking maybe Sammy would give him more if he shut up. He'd tried. “Is she hot?” The glare he received didn't give him much of a choice. “Alright alright, touched the wrong nerve, got it. Jesus.” Sam shook his head with a sigh and kept working. How much longer was it gonna take? “So when do I get to meet her? You know, warn her about breaking your heart, ask embarrassing questions about your sex noises. Big brother stuff.”

“You're a jerk.”

“Aw, easy tiger,” Dean was truly having fun, he wasn't stopping. “You're the little one – well, in age. That's what you get for being four years late, bitch.” Sam wasn't sharing any more. That must have been one freaking sensitive nerve. Dean could always get data from Charlie. Hell, he could show up at Stanford directly and bat his long lashes at informed cute girls. He could use all the practice he could get to perfect his technique anyway. “Hey, Sam,” he said more seriously. “I'm gonna leave.”

This time, all the papers in Sammy's hands dropped, and some of them went flying at the other side of the room.

“For a couple days,” he precised. Okay, he'd left that bit out the first time to get the dramatic response. “I need to go out of state, I won't be too long.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

“Don't worry about that. I'm just letting you know so that I don't end up with a thousand panicked messages on my phone.”

“Is it about dad?” Sammy tried to focus on his stupid letters again, he moved them around and picked up the ones that had fallen to the floor, but he was mostly just flicking through them. No need to mention it aloud.

“No.” Dean straightened the piles he'd made, made sure the edges of the envelopes were all aligned and nothing was going to collapse. “There's just that one thing I need to do, and then I'll be right back.”

_Pack your things, I'll be right back._

They didn't need to say it, they knew. That wasn't a promise Dean broke.

“Can I ask,” Sam questioned softly, handing Dean an envelope.

He smiled and stashed it with the rest of them. “It's better if you don't.”

 

________________________________________

 

 

December 1999

“Dean, what the Hell?”

He doesn't have time for that. He crosses the room with three large steps and slams the bathroom door behind himself. It's everywhere. The mirror faces him and it's on his face, it's on his skin, it's drying there. Sam's fist is pounding on the door but it'll hold. He doesn't listen to him, it's fucking drying there. He rips off his clothes, takes off what he can't tear apart, and he gets in the shower. The water must be fucking freezing, it's always freezing in these shitty motels, but he couldn't give a shit, he can't even feel it. It's fucking everywhere, he rubs it off and it's tainting the water, and there's more when he closes his eyes so he keeps them open under the freezing water. It must hurt but he can't feel a thing, he's fucking numb, he's numb like he's made of fucking plastic, like his brain is letting go of his limbs and he needs to get his shit together right now. He stays in the shower until he can feel how fucking freezing the water is and he starts shaking. He doesn't have clothes, it's everywhere, he can't wash it off them 'cause then he'll freeze to death when he puts them back on. He can't put them back on. He looks in the mirror and he can still see it, he wants to rub his skin with sandpaper, his fucking freezing skin, shit.

The door's pounding and Sammy's screaming out there, he needs to do something right now, he can't leave the clothes there. He puts the towel around his waist and he pulls the door open and he shoves his way past Sam. The whole room is freezing now, he's gonna get sick, he's gonna get fucking sick. He goes to the wardrobe and Sam is still yelling, but it's like he's yelling in a weird alien language, he can't make out a single thing he says, he can't see the clothes. He's already seen the clothes. He needs new clothes.

He finds a pair of his father's pants and socks and a plaid shirt and he puts it all on, he's fucking freezing and he's shaking and his fingers are fucking numb like plastic. It's still too fucking cold and he puts on the leather jacket in the closet, and he thinks it fits, yeah, it suits him, he's gonna keep that, he's gonna keep it as his own, he thinks while Sam's practically crying now.

He locks himself in the bathroom and he waits. Dad's told him, that's what you do, you go where Sammy can't see you and you wait, you wait until you know what to do. How's he supposed to know what to do? He's sitting and there's the clothes that are covered with it on the floor and he can't stare at them so he puts them in the shower and he turns the freezing water on, serves them fucking right. He sits on the toilet and he waits and there's still noise outside the door, he's just waiting like a fucking idiot for some goddamn revelation and it's never gonna come, and the water comes out tainted, it's like there's a river of it, it's soaking everything, it's not washing away, he's drowning in it.

He doesn't know how long it takes but he realizes the noise has stopped and he panics, his body's still all numb but he thinks he can think and so he thinks. Sammy's supposed to be out there, Sammy's not supposed to go out, he has to make sure he's still there. He stops the water running and it's not freezing anymore, he burns his fingers just touching the showerhead but it doesn't really hurt. He tries to yank the door open 'cause he's fucking panicking but his hands are fucking numb and it opens so fucking slowly he thinks he's gonna die before he can see Sam.

The door finally opens and Sam's on his bed and his face is wet like Dean's except it's not wet _like_ Dean's. They look at each other and Sam's fucking scared, he shouldn't be scared, he's scared because of the clothes but now it's all gone, they're all clean and Dean's clean too, so why is he fucking scared?

Dean can't think so he goes to his bed and he sits and then he lies down and it's comfy there, he hasn't been on a mattress in days and he's forgotten how comfy these things are, they're like clouds, like balls of cotton, it's too good. He doesn't sleep, or at least he doesn't think he sleeps, but when he wakes up, he knows what to do. He gets up and he picks up the clothes from the shower, and before he gets out, he says:

“Pack your things, I'll be right back.”

 


	15. Murder isn't like bicycling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now the betaed version. This is so much better, huge thanks to MitsuruAki. I'll be waiting for the betaed version to update from now on.

It was just after six; the sun was starting to come up but it was still chilly outside. Dean burried himself deeper in his jacket as he waited in his car. He was too tired to think. Sam would find his note later in the morning. He was only leaving for two days at most. Salt Lake City was about eleven hours away and if things went smoothly, he would be back before lunch the next day. And things were going to go smoothly. This was just a talk. If Crowley had wanted him dead, he would most likely be lying in a dump already. And, well, there wasn't much he could do about it now that he'd been found. He was always going to be found. He'd always known this would happen sooner or later, but for Crowley to ask to see him personally?

Right. Too tired to think.

Bela's Porsche appeared and stopped next to him without a sound. She got out, her hair floating around her face, then opened his passenger door and climbed inside his car. “I have to say, I'm almost surprised to see you.”

Yeah, well she could stuff her grin down her throat and choke on it. He winced as she made herself comfortable in the leather seat and shut the door with a slam.

“Don't – _touch_ anything,” he growled.

“Well this is going to be a nice ride,” she muttered under her breath.

Dean drove in silence. He didn't even put music on, he just watched the road disappear under his wheels and royally ignored any vain attempt at conversation from his passenger. She gave him directions every now and then, and it pissed him off because she was assuming he didn't know his way across the whole country better than anyone. Better than her, at the very least. He took small comfort in the fact that she kept switching positions to stretch her legs after just a few hours. Long car trips didn't seem to be that Brit's cup of tea. Him? He regularly drove for sixteen hours straight, and spent more time inside his Baby than he did on his own two legs. He sank deeper into his seat and forced his shoulders to relax.

“Stop the car here,” Bela said after ten hours of intense fidgeting, pointing at a parking lot near a restaurant.

He faced her and frowned. “We're almost there. Can't you wait just ten minutes?”

“I can't,” she insisted with that petulant accent of hers. “I swear, if I don't get out of this car right now, we're both going to regret it. I won't be long.” She slammed the door shut and walked inside the restaurant.

She was calling Crowley, obviously, to let him know they were almost there. Dean stretched his neck and checked his phone. No missed calls or texts, Sam had gotten his note. He contemplated calling him just to tell him he was fine, because he knew his little brother would be fretting despite his note or their conversation, but he was probably currently learning how to keep innocent people out of jail. Besides, he'd be home in the morning. He wasn't going to stay away long enough for Sammy to start tearing out his princess hair.

He wondered if Cas would have enough time to start worrying. Maybe he was sitting by his window at this exact moment, waiting for Dean to show up. Maybe he'd been up at five thirty this morning, when Dean had left. Maybe he thought Dean was gone for good. Maybe Dean should have told him about it. Sam and Charlie knew, they'd tell Jo and Meg if they asked, and Bobby and Benny wouldn't worry about a few days absence; but all Cas was aware of was that Dean had arrived out of nowhere, and was staying at his brother's apartment for an unknown length of time. It was a logical assumption to think he'd left for real, without a word. It bothered him a little, he should have thought of it earlier.

He forgot about it while putting his phone back in his pocket when the passenger door opened and slammed shut next to him. “So where are we going now?” Dean asked as he started the car again.

  
  


The tall gray building where Bela made him pull off the road wasn't what Dean had expected. He was used to late night meetings in the dim light of crowded bars that provided privacy, whispered words in alleyways, random waitresses giving him encrypted notes with his meals; not private appointments in fifty-story towers.

Bela got out of the car as soon as it pulled to a stop and sighed in relief as her feet touched the ground. He followed her out, leaning against the hood of his car to look at her. “So what's up with this place?”

She stopped stretching like a cat and looked back at him. “Pardon?” Dean tilted his head to indicate the building behind her back. She turned around as though she had no idea what he was referring to. “What about it?”

He shut his door and they started walking towards the building's tall glass doors. “Not very discreet. Does he own it?”

They reached the door, Bela holding it ajar and sliding her hips in without slowing her pace.

“He does,” she started to answer as Dean yanked the door open again, taking larger steps to catch up. “I'm sure you're accustomed to much more despicable meeting points, but Crowley isn't one for bars that sell cheap beers.” Her heels beat a ceaseless rhythm on the floor as they passed a desk without a receptionist. “As for circumspection, I really don't think that is something you ought to be worrying about.”

He followed her across a huge white hall where dozens of empty seats were waiting for people in dark suits to sit in them with their laptops to work on important figures. His shoes were clean, as were his clothes and his body, but he couldn't help feeling like he was leaving a trail of mud behind him. Even though there was no one to spare him a glance, he had the impression of something watching his every step. Cameras, probably. They got into an elevator that was apparently waiting for them. “Where is everyone?”

He couldn't deny it, there was a bubble of apprehension rising in his chest. He suddenly felt like he should have eaten something for breakfast, or at least drank some coffee. He was conscious of his blood pumping through his veins, beating against the walls of his arteries to get out.

Bela grinned. A bell rang lightly in the elevator and the doors opened, revealing a corridor where the walls were covered in red velvet and the floor was made of dark oak. “Crowley had the ground floor as well as this one cleared for you. It's better for both you and him to hide your face from some people in this building. You are a wanted man, we can't have those freckles exposed to so many vengeful eyes,” she told him with a glance at his face over her shoulder.

A fair point. He swallowed as they walked towards the dark wooden door. It tasted like rust.

“Wait here,” she ordered before she slithered into the room. He waited, trying to eavesdrop, but there wasn't a sound crossing the massive door.

A couple of silent minutes passed before it occurred to him – he could still run. If he wanted to, he could sprint to the elevator, to his car and leave. There were so many reasons why it wouldn't work, why he'd probably never make it past the building's entrance, why it was stupid to even try because they knew where to find him, and if not him, then Sam, Charlie, Cas... but the knot buried in his stomach told him it didn't really matter. He wasn't supposed to be here, not after all he'd done. He was supposed to be out.

He looked out a window and saw traffic on the streets, people coming home after work, a whole world out there that had no idea what was going on in this building. A big bad world that didn't care. People who worried about their bills and their kids' academics, whose big issues were about pink envelopes and their asshole boss and which President they were going to vote for. He looked at them, and for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to think it – he envied them.

Before he could do something stupid, the door opened again and Bela smiled with her red lips. “He's ready for you.”

Dean stayed still, measuring her stare, and then stepped inside the room.

The decoration was the same: dark red walls, dark brown floor, dark gray stone. There was a large black desk in the middle of the room, with a crackling fireplace behind it. It was all so melodramatic it made him want to laugh. It might have been partly due to the music floating lightly in the air, some love song about crazy eyes. A black leather armchair faced the fire, doubtless casting a shadow behind Dean's back.

He'd only met Crowley once, when Alastair had decided he was worthy of it, three years earlier. Those weren't their names, of course. They were code names. Everyone Crowley deemed important got one. Dean had never had one.

 _Heard a lot about you, boy_. He still remembered their first encounter vividly enough. The noise of the cars driving on the intertwined highways above their heads, the electricity in the air, and the cold, always the cold.

“Pleasure to see you again.” The deep voice came from the fire.

Sarcasm and respect fought inside Dean's head. “You'll have to turn around for that,” he said in the end.

Crowley turned. He was wearing black, the same long coat Dean had first seen him with. “Sit.” Dean went to the chair facing Crowley's and sat down. “Hope I didn't make you drive too far.”

Dean snorted. It was like living in a James Bond film; everything was so exaggerated it became ridiculous. He was almost expecting Dracula to come out of his coffin, hidden under a hatch. “You know where I'm coming from; you know I just drove ten hours straight.”

“Ten and a half,” Crowley corrected him with the same smile Bela always carried around, with a finger raised. “Now, enough foreplay. I assume Ms. Talbot informed you of the reason why you're here today.”

“She said you wanted to make a deal.”

Crowley grinned. “I'm gonna take an educated guess and say you knew that already.”

“Oh I don't know,” Dean countered with a blank face. “You could kill me, torture me, put me in a cell with no window...”

“Please. You don't hide a Picasso in an attic.”

Dean looked away and swallowed. Still the rotten iron in his mouth. “You do when it starts killing people. I'm a threat to you now.”

Crowley huffed out a laugh. “Why? Because you killed your handler on your way out?” He got up from his seat and started circling the desk. “Alastair was becoming an issue; I would have had him removed anyway. If anything,” he murmured behind Dean's back, “you did me a favor.”

Dean felt chills roam up his spine. He was in a position of prey, blind and sitting. “Why am I here then?”

Hands fell on his shoulders and he felt hair tickling the right side of his face. He had to refrain from reaching for his gun.

“Because I want another one,” Crowley whispered in his ear. The man waited for Dean to wet his lips before he moved away. He went back to his seat and made himself comfortable. “See, even though Alastair was a terrible teacher, I think he could still recognize talent when he saw it. And he saw it in you. He always spoke highly of you, you might say it was a bit of an obsession of his.” Dean remained impassive. “Not sure I can blame him, those are some nice features you've got there.”

“Well I'm sorry,” Dean shrugged and forced the corners of his mouth up, “but I don't play for your team.”

“That so?” Crowley pulled a drawer open and took a beige file out of it. “Castiel Novak,” he said as he flipped through the pages. “Handsome devil. Says here he's got a twin, I'd seriously consider this if I were you. Things could get real funny real quick.”

Dean literally felt his face grow pale. “I don't know this guy,” he tried. “He's my brother's neighboor. I talked to him three times at most.”

Crowley looked at him, unimpressed, and sighed. “May fourth, 2006: target – that's you – spent the night in subject's apartment – that's him,” he read. “Morning: target followed subject into subject's bathroom and made breakfast. Subject and target then spent day on couch conversing companionably until subject took target home. Subject went home alone and spent the rest of his time... well, the rest isn't really any of your business, is it.” He closed the file and let it fall on the desk, making a few sheets fly around it. “It does seem like you two are complete strangers, wonder why I ever thought otherwise.”

Dean raised his chin and wet his lips again. “He was drunk, I was checking on him, he offered for me to stay while my brother sobered up, and I said yes. There's nothing more to it. He doesn't have anything to do with this, you leave him alone.”

“Don't worry,” Crowley crossed his hands on the desk and leaned closer. “I won't touch a hair on his pretty little head. I'm just checking on you. As long as he isn't a threat to you, I'm not a threat to him. Kidnapping loved ones, not really my style. I'm more of a 'torture until you spill as much information as you do blood' sort of guy.”

“You're _checking on me_?” Dean frowned and mirrored Crowley's posture. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Not quite as smart as handsome, are we? It _means_ , my dear little green-eyed killer, that as long as I'm not done with you, no one is damaging that face. Or any part of you, for that matter.”

“And you thought Cas was a _threat_?” He asked incredulously.

“Cas, I'll take note of that.”

Dean sat back and held Crowley's stare. “What do you want from me?”

Crowley pulled another drawer open and set a bottle of scotch and two glasses on his desk. “Want some? Craig, thirty years.” After a while without an answer, Crowley poured himself a drink and closed the bottle. “Your loss.” He sipped from it and exhaled in satisfaction. “Did John, bless his soul, ever tell you about Abaddon?”

Dean winced at his father's name. “Never,” he spat out. “Guess you didn't give him the chance to mention him.”

“Her, darling, her.”

Dean wasn't too surprised. It was unusual for women to work for Crowley, even more so to gain a nickname, but it happened. Bela had come to pick him up, hadn't she?

“After you took him out of the picture, she became our new Alastair. In terms of productivity, she is a miracle. Even before her promotion, I think her figures were better than yours. I would have loved to see what she'd have made of you. Although she might have kept you in a cell for her personal privilege, so maybe that wouldn't have been such a great idea...”

“What's your point, Crowley?”

“My my.” He sipped from his drink again. “My point is, she's a bit _too_ good. See what I mean?”

“No, not really. Are her victims too dead for your liking or something?”

“Too numerous,” Crowley corrected him. “She takes on missions I don't give her, her recruits adore her. It's not healthy.”

_Not healthy?_

“Well I'm sorry to hear that,” he answered with an insincere smile, “I know how deeply you care about your recruits. What I don't see is how _I_ could do something about it. It's not my fault you can't keep your puppets on a leash.”

“Alastair was her father too.” Crowley's voice lowered coldly, and the fifties music in the background only made the scene look more like horror show. “I could give her the exact location of your brother and you wouldn't see the difference between her and an army of hellhounds. The list of people who would cut off your head with their teeth is quite long these days, and she's on top of it, so I suggest you lay off the sarcasm and do as you're told, boy.”

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again when he saw the glare Crowley addressed him.

“With all the students she's making, it won't be long until she gathers a little army. If you let that happen you'd better find a good place to hide because she will check under every rock and sell the world to find you. I've still got control of her, but I don't think it will be very long before she breaks it.”

Dean's jaw was tense. “Alastair wasn't my father.”

A smug smile tugged at Crowley's lips again. “Well he was like one to her. Orphans and paternal figures, you know how it goes,” he explained, dismissively, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “And you,” he said, pointing at Dean's face, “you drove a knife through his skull. I think you have some idea what she must be feeling towards you right now. It took you and your daddy twenty years to get to Azazel, and I still remember how many pieces of him we found once you were done playing. Now, you murdered Alastair less than two years ago, so I'm not sure there _will_ be pieces of you to be found if she gets a glimpse of you.”

“Azazel walked inside my home and set it on fire because he was a psychopath,” Dean controlled his yell. “I killed Alastair because I didn't have a choice, so don't you _dare_ compare me to him.” He felt his blood boiling in his veins, begging him to let it get to a weapon, any weapon at all and make Crowley shut up.

“Well maybe you can try to explaining that to her that while she tests how the color of your blood suits her lips,” suggested Crowley. “Or you could listen to me and keep the both of us happy and _alive_ , by the same token.”

Dean looked at him for a long time, then broke into a short and withering laugh. “Fine,” he gave his assent, rubbing at his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “Spell it out.”

“Ah, see? You can be clever when you want to.”

“Just tell me what it is, Crowley.”

The older man poured himself a second drink and swallowed it all down in one mouthful. “You need to kill her. Just like you did Alastair, she needs to be removed.”

Dean huffed out another laugh and got to his feet. He circled his chair and put his hands on the back of it, leaning in. “Alastair was two years ago. I can't do that anymore.”

“What do you mean you can't?”

“I _mean_ ,” he sighed, “it's not like bicycling, it's not something you can leave alone for a decade and just pick up again, I haven't used my gun in two years, I can't.”

“But it's different for you,” Crowley pointed out smugly. “You are John Winchester's son. You were raised into this. You were raised _for_ this.”

Dean stayed silent for a minute, thinking about it. Crowley had a point, of course. And if his night at Ellen's was anything to go by, his reflexes still hadn't left him. He was rusty, but all he'd need was a few days alone.

“What's in it for you?”

Crowley was mute.

“If she's so efficient, why do you want her gone?”

The shorter man played with his glass, circling its edge with his forefinger, not answering, avoiding Dean's eyes.

 _Oh_.

“You're afraid she's gonna replace you,” Dean breathed. “You've been so confident for all these years, you treat your people like shit, and then she comes around with her flawless resume and they leave you for her, is that it?”

“How could I have guessed these idiots would follow a red-head over me,” he grumbled. “That's what you get for living in a universe of morons.”

Dean shook his head and paced the room, coming back to face Crowley after he'd walked around the room a few times. “Why me? You've got an entire building filled with professional killers, why does it have to be me?”

“This is strategic,” Crowley laid his palms flat on his desk and rose from his chair to be as level with Dean as he could. “I don't know who's on my side anymore, and even though you're clearly not, you're even less on hers, you see? And it's an opportunity for you too, all these – _people_ that would go after you if I wasn't... desperately holding them back like the bunch of mad dogs they are. You can show them that you're not to be messed with. This is the ideal partnership. You'll be the blade, and I'll be the brain.”

  
  


________________________________________

  
  


  
  


After spending three hours in Crowley's 'office' or whatever that room was, Dean needed a break. Bela made him wait by the elevator doors while she cleared the ground floor again, and accompanied him to his car.

The sun was gone by then, so Dean checked in a motel in Murray to put distance between himself and the gray building. He'd brought money from the envelope Bobby had given him. Bless that man.

He called Sam once he was in his room, and let him know he was both alive and fine, which came as a relief to the other end of the line.

He didn't sleep much that night, he'd gotten used to fluffy sofas, and even though they weren't a poster for comfort, they were still largely better than the spring mattress in his room. More than that, he thought about Abaddon. He had no idea what she looked like, obviously, but he could use his imagination. Was there a flame of fury in her eyes? Or were they empty, like all the life had been drained from them? He'd seen people like that in his youth, who looked at him like he wasn't there, like he was some stain in the void they lived in. It'd been his greatest fear as he followed his father around, to end up dragging his feet like they were pulling the weight of the world with chains, to look like a ghost with half his soul six feet under.

Sleep came with the rain and without dreams for Dean.

  
  


________________________________________

  
  


  
  


He woke up around ten and was parked in Sam's parking lot by midnight. He waited in his car for the courage to get out in the mild cold and climb up that tree, and it must have been quarter to one by the time he reached the second balcony.

Cas' window was open.

He seriously considered it for a while, for so long that he sat down on the cold stone and looked inside his apartment while he thought. He liked that part of day, when his mind became as silent as the world and he could observe both from afar. He closed his eyes but was careful not to fall asleep under the stars. In this moment, he was fine, he was good. He was free.

He opened his eyes when he heard noise inside Cas' apartment. At first he thought he'd imagined it, but soon he could see a silhouette moving past his window towards the easel room. Cas lit up the room and yellow rays reflected on the leaves of the tree on his left. Dean smiled to himself, the room with the hole in the wall must have been a little bit of Heaven at this time of day. He already felt like he knew the atmosphere of this place by day, but he could only imagine how it must feel by night. It was a hiding place, somewhere Cas probably never allowed anyone but himself, a territory unsoiled by other people's thoughts and lingering traces. He watched the reflecting patterns change as the leaves moved with the wind until the lights went out. He couldn't go to Sam's window without disturbing the branch and it would have ruined Castiel's privacy.

He couldn't see anything anymore once darkness had fallen again, but he heard Cas' steps crossing the living room and disappearing into his bedroom. He waited until he was sure Cas was asleep, and silently climbed inside. He forbid himself to even take a glance at the easel room, instead picking up a piece of paper on the floor. He looked around for a pen – he was certain he'd seen one lying around somewhere. He went to the kitchen as quietly as he could, and left a note there, before leaving the way he'd gone in and heading back to Sam's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I was imagining in Crowley's office is Crazy Eyes for You by Bobby Hamilton.
> 
> Special thanks to Billy the Kid, a kitten who's currently staying with me and tried to sabotage this chapter. I haven't updated in eight days and it's his fault.  
> Also, 50k, hourra.


	16. The Crossroads of the West, they call it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thanks to MitsuruAki for her brilliant help.

“So how was it?”

Sam was making coffee in the kitchen, and Dean could smell the beans from the couch, where he'd just woken up.

He rubbed at his eyelids to wash the sleep away. “It was fine,” he mumbled through a sigh. “You know. It was okay.” He heard the cupboard open and the clay of the cups hit the counter.

“Uneventful?” Sam provided.

Dean snorted and pulled his blanket completely off his body. “Yeah, uneventful.”

Sam appeared with two steaming cups and perfectly combed hair. He sat down next to Dean and offered him a mug. “So we're alright? There weren't any... complications?”

Dean brought the cup to his lips and drank. It was too hot and he burnt his tongue, but he let out a contented moan anyway.

“Can you please not orgasm next to me?” Sam demanded with a small grin as he blew air on the steam coming out of his cup.

“Sorry Sammy.” Dean mirrored his smile. “Some things are just worth humiliating yourself over. Coffee,” he added with a look of adoration towards his beverage. “Coffee is one of them.”

They drank carefully in silence as the sun slowly invaded the room, drawing abstract shapes on the red wall before them. Sam finished his drink when Dean had drank half of his own, and the younger Winchester got up and went to his room. He came back wearing jeans and a shirt.

Dean looked up at him, his lips still hugging the edge of his mug. “School?”

Sam nodded and started tying his shoes. “So where were you anyway?” He questioned as he put on a jacket, pointedly not looking at his brother. He was trying to make it sound casual, but the tightness in his voice only made it all sound so forced.

“Salt Lake City,” Dean replied flatly. “Drove twenty hours for a five minutes chat,” he confirmed with a shrug past caring when Sam looked at him with surprise.

“The 'Crossroads of the West', huh?” Sam pulled the front door open and half disappeared before Dean's voice stopped him.

“What?”

Sam shrugged with his lips. “That's what they call it,” he answered simply. He shut the door behind him and left Dean staring at the dark liquid in his hands.

“Yeah,” he whispered to himself.

  
  


He made himself breakfast, listening to dissonant chords coming from the next-door neighboor as he patiently chewed on his toast. He wasn't intervening again. Instead, he dressed up quickly and headed to Singer Auto to get away from the noise.

He waved good morning to Bobby and exchanged a few words with Benny on his way to a Chevy truck that had been through a violent encounter with a tree. Those damn plants.

Silently working, he and established two lists: what could stay and what would have to be replaced. On a regular car, the damage would have been pretty bad, but those trucks were killing machines. The tree's injuries were probably far worse.

He was internally debating the condition of the air filter when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Dean pulled it out and noticed it was already one in the afternoon when the screen came to life. He'd already been working on that thing for more than three hours.

The text he'd received came from an unknown number. _If you don't have green eyes and bowlegs, I'm calling the police._

What? Green eyes wrinkled a the screen and he glanced around himself in a nervous reflex. Benny was cursing under a car, and there was no one else around. He examined the number in case he recognized it, but the string of digits was as good as Greek to him. He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and his heartbeat speed up.

The phone buzzed again. _However, if you do possess those, I'm glad you graced my apartment with their presence once again._

Dean felt his throat tighten around his vocal chords and heat gather in his cheekbones. Right. He'd left his number in Cas' kitchen the other night.

He made sure no one could see him with his phone in his hands, like he had something to hide, and texted back. _Thought you didn't have a phone_.

The reply came quickly. _I might have borrowed one under the pretense that this was an emergency_.

Dean smiled to himself. He could imagine what that would have looked like. Cas didn't seem like he was a very good liar. _Suprised you even know how to use it._

It took a longer time for a new message to show up this time. How much time did Cas need to make up an excuse?

_Owner of said phone might be talking me through it_ .

So was the guy reading their conversation? That got Dean smile under control and he straightened his shoulders before making sure no one around him was watching once again.  _Who's owner of said phone?_

Dean quickly went through all the people he knew who could have lent Cas their phone. Sam and Charlie were at school, plus there was no way Cas would have asked either of them to help him text Dean, way too awkward. There weren't that many other people Dean and Cas were both acquainted with. There was Anna, but she had no reason to be anywhere near Cas, did she?

Waiting for an answer, a bolt of lightning scorched through in his brain.  _Meg._ She could be tenacious when she had enough motivation, and judging by the looks – 

_Garth. You've met him. He's the young pianist you once midly criticized._

Oh. Right. Dean cleared his throat and typed back. _So what do you want? I'm kind of busy and covered in grease right now._ He looked at his text and erased the last sentence before sending it.

Castiel took his time once more and Dean's foot drummed impatiently on the ground. He was supposed to be working, Bobby was counting on him and paying him way more than he should, he wasn't gonna thank him by spending his working hours on the phone with –

_To make sure a psycopath didn't break into my apartment last night, mostly._

Dean was about to ask ' _Mostly?'_ when his phone hummed again.

_And your brother invited me to dinner._

That was a weird phrasing that had Dean making all sorts of faces before he settled on a mildly concerned expression. _Are you sure 'dinner' was the word he used?_

Benny came out from under his car in the corner of Dean's eye and Dean quickly put his phone in his pocket and looked back at his destroyed Chevy. Yeah, he'd have to replace the air filter. Definitely.

The phone came to life in his pocket as he took notes of all the reparations he'd have to work through, and again as he walked inside the main building to see what parts he'd need to order. He only took it out again ten minutes later, when all he could see of Benny was his wiggling legs as the man disappeared one more time, and Bobby was busy making a phone call. As expected, two texts from the now known number were waiting for him.

_He said I should come over because 'it will be fun and Dean will cook'. I asked what you were cooking and he said I could name anything I wanted and you would cook it for me._

_Do not force your siblings to be liars._

Well. Dean looked at the mess under the truck's hood and the dark slimy matter covering his hands. If he wanted to be done with this car before the end of the week, he would have to order the damaged parts in the afternoon and then start extracting what he could from the carnage. He wasn't leaving the garage before seven.

_Yeah, sure, grilled ham and cheese alright?_

The reply was immediate. _They're called croque monsieur._

Dean could see the squint from where he was standing. He rolled his eyes and texted back. _Posh names don't make food taste any better, Cas._

_It's not posh, Dean, it's French._

Dean sighed and reached for the car's parts he couldn't see with the hand that wasn't busy typing. _Why don't you sing Edith Piaf to the sandwiches while I toast them, see what good your French does then._

He almost dropped his phone when it vibrated again, just as he sliced one of his fingers on what might have been a heat exchanger, at some point in its life. “Son of a bitch,” he cursed to himself and sucked the blood from his forefinger.

“Everything okay brotha?” Benny asked from behind his back, wiping his hands on his pants, his face covered in black dust.

Dean slid his finger out of his mouth and waved his injured hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, just some piece of metal out of place.” He glanced at the cut, the blood still flowing freely. “It's nothing,” he shrugged lightly. “I'll go clean it up.”

“Sure.” Benny patted him on the shoulder and headed to Bobby's office without another word.

Dean walked to the small bathroom Bobby had set up for his employees. There were bandaids in a cabinet and a roughly clean sink with clear water coming out of it. Good enough. He set the water running and put his hand under it. It was tainted red when it fell from his index finger, and a little pool formed around the drain. He stopped watching to focus on his phone while no one could see. He had four texts from the same number.

_That would be embarrassing for both me and the bread._

_And as a matter of fact Edith Piaf's songs are all fairly romantic, so it would be embarrassing for you too._

_Maybe some day._

_How do you know Edith Piaf in the first place?_

Dean pulled his finger away from the water when it stopped bleeding and opened the cabinet. It was mostly filled with little bottles of limpid liquids with formulas on their labels, but there were a couple boxes with red crosses on them. Removing one, answered Cas before opening it. _How low do you think I am Cas?_ He waited ten seconds and texted again. _Sam sings it in the shower._ He carefully put a bandage around his finger. It felt weird. He was used to much larger wounds he would maybe pour some alcohol over. Two years earlier, even two months earlier, he would have barely noticed the cut. And yet there he was, putting a shitty piece of plastic over his cleaned up finger. Wonders never cease, he thought.

His screen lit up. _Offending you was never my intention. My apologies. I thought your brother didn't speak French._

Dean hesitated between a deeper frown and a wider smile. In some ways, he must have settled for both. _Right, gotta go, some of us can't work sitting on our ass. See you tonight._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( I spent a whole afternoon looking for the right city and I found one that is nicknamed the Crossroads of the West, so when everyone realizes this is gold and starts using it in their own fics, just remember I was the pioneer who went on that desperate hunt. This is my only wish.)


	17. They're like a cat's.

“We should call a professional.”

“Yeah, well we _have_ a professional in the living room,” Charlie said a tiny bit louder for Dean's benefit. “Sadly he's a diva and won't get off his sweet little ass for something that doesn't have wheels, so we're fixing this on our own and we'll rub it in his face when he's dying in a hospital bed, _alone_ because he won't have friends, and _dying_.”

Dean smiled under the towel he was currently energitically rubbing against his wet hair. He'd done everything he could with the truck, and then he'd even helped Benny with the car he'd been fighting with all day. After Bobby had smiled appreciatively at the both of them and told them to get the hell off his property, Dean had bought all the cheese he'd found at the store, driven back to Sam's, given both his roommates a greasy hug, and showered. He was sort of exhausted and feeling cleaner than he remembered being possible, and he wasn't going to help them with whatever household appliance they'd broken this time. He was going to melt into this couch, keep that smile on his face until it hung there naturally, and listen to Sammy and Charlie destroy their kitchen. Yep.

“I... really don't think it's supposed to make that noise,” the wince in Sam's voice was obvious.

“I've known this microwave my whole life; I trust him over you.”

“There's no way a microwave can live that long.”

“Are you calling me old? Just 'cause we don't celebrate your birthday doesn't mean you don't age you know.”

There was a light bumping sound followed by a short yelp. Charlie must have hit him on the head with one of the big wooden spoons she regularly threatened people with while she was cooking (and incidentally throwing dough around the whole room with her improvised sword).

“I would never imply – what, what are you doing. Charlie, what –”

“Relax, I'm just gonna put this... maybe... wait.”

“Someone's gonna die.”

“It's gonna be fine; I lived alone for a long time and I never hurt myself.”

“Your elbow says differently.”

“That was _one_ time and I was drunk. _And_ , it was Comic Con.”

“That doesn't justify anyth– are you insane? Stop that!”

“Sam, it's okay; I'm just gonna grab this thing here...”

The long-lasting shatter of glass that followed brought an even longer silence to life. It was hard to identify the cause of the noise. Something had obviously been subjected to a deadly fall, and glass had been involved, but the exact nature of the object Dean would never again get to blankly stare at during breakfast was a mystery.

For a brief moment, no one in the apartment, or probably on the entire planet, spoke a word. As was usually the case, the suspense the endless silence had slowly built popped like a bubble with a very anticlimatic “my bad” in Charlie's apologetic voice.

Dean pulled the towel off his head and cracked his neck as though preparing for battle. “I'm not stepping in that kitchen if the floor is covered in glass,” he warned wearily. “And I'm not cooking in the living room. Again.”

“Alright,” Charlie conceded with a tiny mouse voice. “Sam, don't step on the glass. I'll get the broom.”

Dean closed his eyes and let his head rest against the back of the couch while Sam muttered unintelligibly and Charlie mutely swept the kitchen floor.

“It's cool,” she offered reassuringly after a while. “We'll just get a new one,” she half-stated half-asked.

“You're gonna pay for this,” Sam answered solemnly. “I don't know how you're gonna warm up cold coffee in the morning without a microwave, but let me tell you, you're gonna find a way.”

“Totally,” she promised.

Dean got to his feet and went to lean against the kitchen doorframe. Sam sat on a counter looking at the floor as Charlie gathered the bits of glass right under his feet, making he knew he'd definitely hurt himself if he tried to come down before she was done. The microwave's corpse was lying on the floor in a pool of wires.

“Anyone hurt themselves?” Dean asked, keeping an unmanly chuckle inside.

“Dude.” Sam gestured towards the floor dramatically. “We don't have a microwave anymore.”

“We're fine,” Charlie determined with a nod to herself. “It almost landed on my feet, but I'm a quick dodger.”

Dean rolled his towel into a ball he threw in the bathroom's direction. “So what's tonight about? Cas told me you told him to come over?”

Sam looked up at him with a pout from his grumpy throne. “Yeah,” he acquiesced flatly. “Meg asked me to ask him. Don't know what it is about this guy but she's making a big deal out of it. Never seen her quite like this. Thought I'd let her give it a try.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “Are you telling me you're helping Meg get into Cas' pants?”

“Yeah, I'm over her, you know.”

Charlie snorted. “About time. You guys went out when you were still shorter than Dean, and it lasted about ten seconds.”

“Shut up Charlie.” Sam threw an icy glare at her. “You'll get your sarcasm license back when I have a functioning microwave. Until then you get to mop the floor in silence while I hate you from above.”

“I deserve that,” she whispered to herself and resumed searching for shiny pieces of glass hiding behind the furniture.

The dark cloud above Sam's head dissipated quickly enough; Dean's little brother was utterly incapable of staying mad at someone – or mad period – for more than ten minutes. “Anyway,” Sam sighed, releasing the irritated tension in his shoulders with his exhale, “they're supposed to be here by nine; Meg's picking Jo up on her way, and they'll knock on Cas' door to get him too.”

Dean nodded to himself. Meg was deadly serious about this, and he wanted to be there when Cas explained to her what was what. It wasn't cruelty, it was competitive spirit. His friendship with Meg had started with a tacit agreement that they would both revel in each other's failures and keep track of them so that they could designate a winner on their death beds. Dean was scoring big on the Castiel Novak Affair: not only was Cas completely disinterested in Meg but he was also into Dean, which, after several nocturnal internal monologues, seemed to be manageable.

“What are we watching then?” he asked with a hint of a grin.

Sam shrugged as he irregularly drummed against the counter with his feet. “Jo said she was bringing something. Didn't say what.”

Mystery movie it was then. Knowing Jo, it would turn out to be some crazy action movie with a main character going on a desperate quest and kicking ass like a pro. The short and slender woman Dean considered as some kind of niece was in no way the Barbie girl most people saw in her. She'd outlasted both Dean and his brother when they'd tried to watch Saw, and had laughed her way through The Shining, which had both pissed off and amazed the elder Winchester. If Jack Nicholson didn't make her pee herself, Dean didn't know what would.

  
  


The kitchen floor was declared safe around eight thirty, which gave Dean about twenty minutes – knowing Meg's irresponsible driving, 'nine' would most likely turn into ten to – to get six freaking _croque monsieur_ on their way to their empty and growling stomachs. Cooking, like driving and working around cars, was so relaxing. It consisted of the chronological execution of a list of simple tasks that required no thinking, contemplating, balancing, measuring, or any other kind of brain stuff. _Butter the bread, put cheese on bread, put ham on cheese, put cheese on ham, cover with bread, put in the pan, flip sandwich around, repeat_.

Meg outdid herself and knocked on their door at a quarter til nine. Dean could hear Jo hitting Sammy on the shoulder like she always did instead of saying hi like a civilized person, and pulling Charlie into a quick hug before letting gravity violently force her slender body onto the couch. He could hear Meg dragging her hips inside the apartment without so much as a hello and throwing her jacket on a chair with a tired _old people shouldn't have a license in the first place_.

But at this instant, Dean was focusing on what he couldn't hear. What he couldn't hear were Cas' silent steps, his polite nod to Sam as he carefully set foot inside, his mute greeting to Charlie. At least, that was what Dean imagined must be going on in the other room. It wasn't like Meg could have forgotten to get him, and Cas wouldn't have backed out. Not when he'd told Dean he was coming over. Or would he?

Dean got his answer when Sam's voice reached his ears.

“Hey, Cas. What's that?”

“That's um, that's wine.”

_Wine. Uh huh._ Dean checked for a sense of surprise within himself, and, when he couldn't find any, he smiled and shook his head before focusing on his cooking again. The sandwiches were ready for grilling now, so he started opening all the cupboards in his search for a frying pan. The number of fancy appliances Sam and Charlie had bought was alarming. Dean would surely kill himself if he ever tried to use any of them.

“Right,” he heard Charlie utter. “That's... I mean, you shouldn't have – the kitchen is... well, you know where it is.”

Expecting Cas to appear any second, Dean quickly found a pan and turned on the gas under it, suddenly feeling the urge to busy himself in whatever way possible. It sort of felt like walking past a police car or a surveillance camera: even though you knew you were perfectly innocent, you couldn't help feeling like the way you walked, talked, or bat your eyelashes wass suspect; you tried to act natural and it only made you resemble a psychopathic killer who just raped a chicken and ate it afterwards.

Those were the thoughts roaming Dean's mind when Cas cleared his throat behind Dean's back.  _Jesus_ that man's steps were quiet. Dean barely jumped though. He was so absorbed in his own exhausted flow of consciousness that Castiel's greeting registered as the suggestion of a noise more than the guttural sound it had actually been.

“You're one quiet son of a bitch,” Dean said with his back still turned to Cas, eyes riveted on the pan and lips faintly curled.

“Pardon?”

There was some fidgeting behind Dean's back and he suspected that was Cas leaning against the door frame. The man was always leaning against stuff: when he talked, when he watched, when he listened... always against a wall or the counter or whatever was around.

“Your steps,” Dean answered, peering over his shoulder and barely catching a glimpse of Cas, leaning like a prince, grinning with his chin raised, just like Dean had pictured. “They're like a cat's. And my ears are pretty good.”

The bottle in Castiel's hands clanked as he set it down on the counter. “Did I startle you? If so the control you have over your physical reactions is quite impressive.”

Dean shrugged and smiled as he flipped the sandwiches. “I think I'm getting used to it. I'm not saying I won't ever throw a knife at you in panic if you keep creeping up on me while I'm cooking, but you know.”

“Seems fair.”

There was a moment of silence between them while Dean watched the bread darken and the cheese melt, and Cas probably stared at him in silence like he did whenever he had the chance.

It was something Dean liked, on occasion. Not the staring, obviously, but the silence. Or, more precisely, silent company. Most people needed to hear themselves speak to exist, and that was why Dean had always associated silence with loneliness. But, every once in a while, someone proved him wrong, and that night, that someone was Castiel Novak with the bottle of wine he'd brought.

About that. “What's up with the wine?”

“I uh,” Cas started as he picked up the bottle again. “I've been told – I mean I've read you're supposed to bring wine when you're invited to dinner. Last time I came I unfortunately didn't have the occasion to select something.”

Dean snorted. “You mean the time Meg almost ripped off your arm trying to take her with you? Geez, wonder why.”

“We do have different methods,” Castiel chuckled, getting closer and closer to Dean's back if the approaching sound of corked liquid was anything to go by. “Anyway, the point is I don't know anything about wine, but I didn't want to show up empty-handed, so there you go. Feel free to taste it beforehand and throw it in the sink if it's too bad.”

Even though there were no steps to confirm his theory, Dean assumed Cas had left the kitchen. He flipped the sandwiches one more time and made sure to turn down the heat a little so they wouldn't burn before he examined the bottle. There was no way he was serving wine; he only did so with classy chicks he spent the occasional night with. The wine description was in French, but then that didn't really mean anything considering all the effort wine people put into giving their product that fancy outlook. To be honest, Dean didn't know that much about wine himself, so he basically translated all those four-syllabled words with accents everywhere into 'trust me buddy those numbers on the price tag are justified'. He shrugged and put the thing in the fridge without hesitation. He took out three, four, six beers instead and turned off the gas.

 


	18. I hit the ground, bang bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor Kill Bill spoilers? Get your Tarantinos up do date.  
> Also this marks my 100,000 words on AO3. Enjoy :) !

Dean found all four of them waiting for him on the couch. Meg was at one end, sitting like a queen with her dark legs crossed and an elbow on the armrest. Next to her, Cas looked like he had no idea what universe he'd landed on; he kept his hands to himself, one on each thigh, and tried to avoid as much contact with other people as he could. However, Jo, the remote dancing in her hands like they were considering stabbing someone to death with it, didn't seem to notice the shy look on Cas' face. She regularly jostled his shoulder as she passionately explained something – probably for the hundredth time in the last five minutes – to Sam and Charlie. Sam was his usual gigantic self, as comfortable as Gandalf under Bilbo's roof. His shoulder blades were probably grinding against each other to leave some space for the two ladies at his sides. Charlie was folded up: sitting on one leg, the other falling from the couch, staring at the screen wearily.

Needless to say, unless someone in that room was willing to remove of a few limbs, there was absolutely no way Dean would squeeze in without smothering at least two people.

“Here's how this is gonna work,” he announced, balancing all the plates on his arms. “You only get to eat when my ass is melting into that couch. So you guys can figure out who's sitting on whose lap; I'm just gonna stand here and stuff my mouth with cheese, waiting.”

Food was quite a vicious motivator. In just a few seconds, the five grumbling stomachs rearranged themselves to leave a large gap between Castiel and Charlie; Sam and Jo were more than happy to sit on the floor if it meant they'd be rewarded with grilled ham.

Dean sighed contentedly as he sat between his adopted sister and the dorky little guy he'd somehow made friends with. Everyone received a plate, Meg checked for meat in hers, and Jo pressed play.

The screen remained completely dark for a while. Then, there was breathing. Ragged breathing. A woman's. It was all black and white: she was lying on the floor, her face stained with blood, wide-eyed. A man walking, with small heels on his boots, saying something about not being sadistic. It seemed a little pretentious. The woman tried to say something but was cut mid-sentence by a bullet – and the darkness fell again.

Then, almost suddenly, there was music. Something that sounded Hispanic, with a weary guitar and a deep, mournful feminine voice. Gradually, the dark shape of a woman lying on her back was revealed, as the music went on. It was oddly mesmerizing, the tired resignation in that voice.

“What's that?” Dean asked aloud, as though his subconscious was taking control of his tongue.

He saw faces turning to him from the corner of his eyes, even though he refused to look anywhere other than the screen.

“You've never seen Kill Bill before,” Meg said in one exhale. Her usually mocking tone hadn't made it past the surprise.

Dean had heard that name before, obviously. It was a Tarantino movie, that much he knew; he'd just never had the occasion to watch it.

“I've heard that name before,” Cas announced, his mouth full of bread. “Is that what this is?”

Everyone in the room was about to confirm it to Cas when Jo interrupted all of them before they even opened their mouth.

“Speaking with your mouth full,” she said, voice muffled by her sandwich, sending crumbs of bread and unidentified animal proteins flying out of her mouth, “is totally rude.”

Dean snorted and watched Cas frown at the food in his hands, and then at Jo.

“I'm proud of you,” she added, throwing an arm back to pat his knee.

Dean watched the long, slim fingers leave Castiel's leg; when he looked up again, he saw Meg was staring as well. More than that, he saw that she saw he was staring. So what? Cas didn't seem to be the type of guy who was used to physical contact, let alone with women. So it was perfectly normal for Dean, as the closest thing Cas had to a friend, to make sure no one was making him uncomfortable.

He escaped Meg's stare and focused on the movie.

 

________________________________________

 

 

Dean left the room during the scene where the blonde turned around to face the kid, her face bloody. He collected the plates calmly and took them to the sink, in spite of the minor resistance that arose from his five partners in crime. As opposed to what people might think, he didn't have a taste for violent scenes. He didn't have a taste for violence at all. That was why most of his friends–Meg always first in line–thought he was scared of blood. They laughed about it sometimes, and Sam would look him in the eye and offer a tentative smile. He just let it all slide.

Turning on the water and washing the dishes, he tried not to hear the screams coming from the living room, to turn them into background noise. The plates became clean too quickly. He was never going to buy enough time anyway; there was no way locking himself in the kitchen wouldn't raise any suspicion. Still, he bent over the sink as the water drained down the pipes and he counted the seconds, waiting until far more time had passed than was necessary to do the dishes.

“Dean?”

He spun around abruptly, almost hurting his neck as he did so. Not that he needed any deduction skills to figure out whose voice that had been, but the employed tone would have sufficed to let him know who was addressing him.

“Jesus, when did all of you become so quiet?”

Sam stood there, empty beer cans in his hands, frowning confusedly. “Sorry?”

Dean shut his eyes and sighed, releasing all his pent-up tension. He grabbed a dishcloth to wipe his hands while he got his heartbeat back under control. “Nevermind.” He extended both arms towards his brother and gestured for him to hand over his armload of recyclables. “Give it,” he said. “I'll take care of it.”

The cans transferred from one to the other, but Sam didn't budge as the older Winchester compacted them one by one to throw them in the trash. “That's the wrong bin,” Sammy interrupted calmly when Dean let the first can fall into the plastic bin. “Cans go in the one with the green bags.”

“Oh,” Dean mumured. His hand plunged into the trash and pulled the beer out.

“Are you okay?”

Dean contemplated shrugging. He threw away the last can and opened the fridge to keep himself busy. “I'm fine.” There was nothing left to eat in there, someone in this apartment would have to go grocery shopping one day or another. Dean pulled out fresh beer and offered Sam one.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

Dean smiled. Always so polite, little Sammy.

“I can tell them I don't like that movie if you want,” Sam suggested. “Or I could unplug the tv or something.”

The last remaining Winchesters looked at each-other. Sam's gray sweater was becoming too tight for him, around the shoulders and the neck. It made Dean smile because he knew Sam would still wear it if it meant strangling himself with the collar.

It had been Dean's graduation gift to him. As a sort of joke. Before his final exams, Sam had repeatied the same names and dates over and over: Wilson, 1913, 1921; Harding, 1921, 1923; Coolidge, 1923, 1929; Hoover, 1929, 1933; Roosevelt, 1933, 1945; Truman, 1945, 1953. There were more, too. Dean remembered them all after hearing them all night, every night for three months. They'd been hammered into his brain. One day he went to a shop that specialized in customized clothing. The owner had eyed him oddly when he'd recited all the dates and events he'd come to know by heart. Two days before the History exam, he'd given Sam the sweater, covered in numbers and names, everything the guy had been able to fit on there.

The print was fading now, obviously. The date of Stalin's death couldn't quite be made out, and 'Thatcher' was now mostly 'hatcher'.

Dean smiled and cracked open his beer. “Why would you do that?”

Sam pinched his lips and nodded to himself. “Okay,” he surrendered. “If you change your mind you can just pretend you hurt your little toe and I'll get the signal.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.” Sam took two steps back and stopped again. “We might have to turn it off anyway,” he said with a smirk. “Cas looks so pale even _Meg_ won't come to close to him. You old people I swear.”

Had there been anything less sharp within reach of Dean's arm, he most likely would have thrown it at his brother's face.

 

________________________________________

 

 

Cas did indeed look like he was about to throw up his stomach. _Faints at the sight of blood_ , Dean thought. _Grand_. Meg wasn't watching the movie so much as making sure Cas wasn't about to puke on her clothes at any moment.

Sam glanced at Dean as the elder Winchester returned to the living room and leaned against the wall to observe the frankly ridiculous scene from afar. Sammy shook his head as though calling his brother a complete child, and twisted around on his ass to look at Cas.

 _That rhymes_ , Dean thought, momentarily distracting himself.

“Man,” Sam said, sounding almost surprised. “Are you okay?”

Everyone focused on the pale-faced thirty-year-old man who couldn't even shake his head for fear of emptying all of his digestive system on the floor right then and there.

“These scenes are incredibly violent,” Cas muttered instead.

Sam and Charlie laughed while Jo genuinely questioned: “Are you serious?” Meg raised one eyebrow and kept all of her body parts to herself and as far away from the Castiel Threat as possible.

“Okay that's it,” Sam declared to the assembled party, rising to his feet and staring down at a complaining Jo from his six feet and three inches. “I'm not having him throw up on my couch.” He searched for the remote and caught Dean's eye in doing so. The empathetic smile he flashed his big brother gave Dean a confusing mix of feelings, both warm and freezing in his chest.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Charlie asked Cas, a supportive hand on his shoulder. Most people would have said that girl was seventy per-cent sass, twenty per-cent video games and ten per-cent hot chick magnet, but most people forgot she could also be so kind when it mattered.

“I don't think so,” Cas answered, and his blank stare was definitely convincing. Not.

Sam paused the movie and insisted, “Dude, you're whiter than a sheet. You're even green.”

Then Cas put his hand to his mouth and Dean intervened. “Okay, that's it big boy, you're coming with me.” He helped the other man up from the couch and led him to the bathroom, making sure Cas's organs weren't jiggling too much inside his body.

“I'm fine Dean,” Castiel protested, even though he was growing paler by the second and leaning quite heavily against Dean as he took shaky, hesitant steps.

“Of course you are. I'm just carrying you around for the hell of it, it's like a habit now.” They reached the bathroom door and Dean let go of Cas' chest. “Think you can take it from here?”

Cas didn't answer, simply stared pitifully up at Dean with his gray cheekbones and the highlighted bags under his eyes. Dean smiled at the over-dramatic scene and pulled the door open. “It seriously wasn't that gory.”

“Says the man who fled to the kitchen,” Cas mumbled as he stepped inside the bathroom.

Dean didn't say anything. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood in the door frame as Cas examined the room.

It might have been a weird thing to decide, but Cas fit in this room. The different shades of washed out blue he was wearing were the same ones Charlie had picked to paint the walls. His atypically pale skin and dark hair seemed gracious in the pastel light – it felt quiet. It felt peaceful.

“Okay,” Dean interrupted his own train of thought and lowered the toilet lid. “Sit there and put your head between your knees.”

Castiel was most likely too light-headed to argue so he simply obeyed. “Are you staying for this?” he asked.

“If you pass out you'll be glad I'm here to keep your head away from sharp edges.”

Castiel smiled softly, but it looked crestfallen on his sick features. “I am not going to pass out.”

Dean smirked. “Your face is pale, which probably means your head–that means your brain–isn't getting enough blood,” he explained slowly, letting his voice drop an octave, as he usually did when he was tired, or flirting. “You're having trouble walking on your own and your hands are shaking, which _could_ be a sign of hypoglycemia.” He marked a pause as Cas's eyes widened, brow furrowed. “Although in my opinion you're just a whiny baby who faints at the sight of blood.”

Cas chuckled quietly and cocked his head. “I don't remember you telling me you were a doctor.”

“Yeah...” Dean broke eye contact to stare at an imaginary stain on his sock. “Knowing the basic symptoms of someone about to collapse is kind of a requirement in my line of work.”

The expressions flickering on Cas's face changed so quickly it was difficult to keep track of them. “I thought you were a mechanic.”

Dean half-heartedly huffed out a laugh. He took a step back, and, one hand against the wall maintaining his balance, sat across from Cas, a little more than a meter separating them. When he found a relatively comfortable position, he answered Cas's unspoken question. “You'd be surprised to see just how dangerous a garage can be.”

Castiel tilted, his head up a little, not exactly between his knees anymore, his chin just high enough so that he could rest his eyes on Dean without spraining his neck. “What are you doing working there anyway?”

He was already looking a little healthier, Dean thought. “I'm actually fixing cars, if you can believe it.”

Cas smiled brightly, and probed. “Really, why would you settle for that?” Since Dean didn't seem to have an answer ready, Castiel kept going. “You are definitely clever,” he mused, “and you appear to be likeable enough, judging by how you interact with your friends and your brother. And I won't even mention your looks.” The son of a bitch smirked. “So why?”

Dean shrugged. He wished he had a beer in his hand to look even more nonchalant. It was an accessory he liked to use when someone was trying to scratch his surface a little too hard, making everything he said sound like he really didn't see why any of it mattered. “Sam's the smart one,” he offered instead. “I grew up with my hands covered with oil; I guess I'm just used to bathing in it now.”

This time, Castiel looked more intrigued than anything else. He blinked several times, his eyebrows slowly reaching for one another, forehead wrinkling in the process. It was sort of mesmerizing to watch his face searching for something. Dean needed like fourteen hours of sleep.

“Come on,” he ordered before Cas could force him to talk about himself any more. “You need to eat something sugary. Splash some cold water on your face and let's go get some pie.”

While Cas did as he was told, Dean went back to the living room to find the youngsters sitting around chatting quietly.

“Is he alright?” Charlie enquired as soon as she saw him.

“That was ridiculous,” Jo interrupted. “There were like _two_ drops of _blood_ , I don't get it.”

“She was trying to blow up his head with a door,” Meg stated flatly, now taking up all the space she had access to, her elbow on the armrest and her head resting on her palm, a poster girl for boredom.

“He didn't even _bleed_.”

“You mean apart from when she cut the back of his ankle, right?” Sam chuckled.

“Guys,” Dean tried and failed to interrupt.

“It lasted less than _two seconds_.”

“Should we put something else on?” Charlie suggested.

“Guys.”

“Well I've got REC 2 in my bag,” Jo offered, “but I don't see how _that_ can happen if everyone starts _passing out_ for no reason.”

“ _Hey._ ” Dean finally got everyone's attention. It was a slightly uncomfortable moment as four pair of expectant eyes stared at him as though he was about to announce the second coming of Jesus. “I uh – I'm taking Cas out.” That sounded weird. “For pie.” Not that much better. “He needs sugar.” Now a complicated term to explain. “I think he's in hypoglycemia.”

Meg squinted in the dark and Sam's brow wrinkled.

“So that means we can finish the movie?” Jo grinned.

Dean quietly thanked the Lord for that girl and all the awkward silences she had saved him from. “Yes,” he told her. “That's exactly what it means.” He turned to Cas. “Need anything before we leave?”

“I need a jacket.”

“We can make a small detour and swing by your apartment,” Dean stated in complete seriousness. “Okay crazy kids,” he continued, pointing at the four dead weights on the couch. “No irresponsible drinking while I'm absent. And don't play with the oven, it's the only heaty thing we got left.”

Sam got up and walked to the door to unlock it. “Yes mum.”

“And be nice to each other.”

Somewhere in the background, Meg snorted.

“Anything else?” Sammy asked as Dean and Cas walked out the door.

Dean adopted an exaggerated thinking face. “Ah, yes.” He put on his most serious expression and said: “If a stranger knocks on the door and tells you he's got candy in his car...”

And Sam slammed the door in his face.

“Bitch.”

“ _Jerk_ ,” came the muffled reply.

 

After Castiel came back out of his apartment with a denim jacket, they walked down to the parking lot where Baby was resting from her rather long day.

“Baby...” Dean grinned like a five year old. “Meet Castiel. He's Sam's neighboor, he draws and speaks several languages, and he faints at the sight of blood, so we're taking 'm out for pie.” He walked around the car and crossed his arms on her roof, watching the bewildered look on Castiel's face. “Cas, this is Baby.”

For a second, it seemed as though Castiel's hand was about to raise and wave to the Chevy Impala. His fingers drummed without rhythm against his thigh as he wondered what to do. Finally, he looked Dean in the eye and said: “You just introduced me to a car.”

Dean lovingly caressed the impecable black paint and whispered tenderly: “Shh Baby, he's a little weird.” Then, Dean pulled his door open. “You comin'?” He called before sitting behind the wheel. Eager to properly show off, Dean didn't wait for Castiel to do the same before letting the engine purr like a barely tamed tiger. He loved, and he meant _loved_ introducing Baby to new people. Driving her felt like a novelty every time he did so – the way she almost flew above the asphalt, how flexible she felt even in violent turns, how sitting on her leather seats was like lying on a cloud... it never ceased being so exhilarating. Especially at this time of day, when the sun was seconds away from disappearing and only the occasional orange ray broke through the dark blue of the oncoming night.

Dean waited for Castiel with an arm thrown behind the back of the passenger seat, ready to drive off in reverse as soon as the dark-haired idiot got his light-headed ass in there.

“Is there anything I'm not allowed to do?” Cas asked after carefully shutting his door.

Dean smiled and patted him on the knee. “Don't puke.”

 


	19. Maybe not so ironic after all.

“What can I get you?”

Dean had his nose burried in the menu. He hadn't eaten pie in a few weeks–how he had survived this long, he would never know–and he wasn't quite sure whether he should get back in the game with apple or cherry. The pecan pie that guy was eating at the table behind Cas also looked delicious.

Well. After all, it was Cas's first time.

“We're gonna have one apple pie, cherry pie, and pecan pie,” he ordered. “And can we have vanilla ice cream to go with the apple? And whipped cream. It's his first time,” he explained to the waitress with his _look at my adorableness_ smile. “I'm not sure what he'll like.”

She wrote it all down, her light brown curls falling on her pink cheeks. “Sure thing!” And she disappeared with their menu.

“Do we really need that much food?” Cas enquired as soon as they were left alone.

Dean hmmed along to some Elvis song the restaurant was playing before answering. Even as he spoke, his fingers were drumming the rhythm on the table. “First, three pieces of pie for two isn't anywhere near ' _that much food'._ Second, once you've taken a bite, you'll understand. And third, we're making up for all the years you spent eating fruit as desert and – _tiramisu_ ,” he spat the word like its mere pronouciation was invading his mouth with the flavor. “And all the other disgusting things you had no idea you were punishing yourself with.”

Castiel returned a shier version of his grin. “I see.”

The short silence that followed was of a hypnotizing sort they had never shared before. Cas stared at Dean with a glint of curiosity and something that wasn't quite admiration nor amusement, something like wonderment. Maybe. Probably just amusement.

“What,” Dean asked flatly after a while. That look needed to be stopped.

Cas took a deep breath and deliberately blinked. “You are one extremely frustrating human being.”

Dean huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “Okay,” he said like he was accepting a challenge. He crossed sat back in his chair and raised his chin, the hint of a grin still on. “What have I done this time?”

“I mean you are very versatile,” Cas explained, crooking his head to the right. “One minute there is that grim look about you, and the next you are taking a man you barely know out for dinner – ”

“Pie. And I know you.”

Castiel smiled a little wider and faintly shook his head. “I could be an axe murderer for all you know.”

The laugh that emanated from Dean's throat incited a few startled heads to rotate and face the both of them. Dean didn't really care about inquisitive glances, he never had, but Cas seemed to shrivel up under the sudden attention.

“What is it?” He asked Dean, wanting to laugh at the joke he didn't understand.

“Nothing,” Dean answered, straightening his back and leaning on the table once again. “I mean the whole reason we're here is that you can't watch two drops of fake blood spill without turning into a nauseous zombi, but sure. You could be an axe murderer.” He felt a second wave of laughter coming up and chuckled as Cas fought a smile. “I'm willing to bet you don't even spray insecticide around in the summer, do you?”

“Insecticide is deadly to bees,” Castiel declared solemnly, the mere _idea_ of a smile completely forgotten, and that only forced another chortle out of Dean. “Bees are of capital importance to our ecosystem,” Cas assured him in earnest.

The thing was, Dean's laugh–the real one, the one he couldn't keep out even if he tried his hardest because it felt like his lungs were about to explode–was contagious. A bit like yawning.

“I promise you,” Cas insisted, his lips treacherously digging dimples in his cheeks. “They are responsible for plants' reproducing cycle and Einstein famously said – ”

Cas interrupted himself when the waitress came back with their plates. Dean's laughter (mysteriously) got under control as the food was laid out in front of him, and soon enough the two men found themselves silently beholding the material pleasure they were about to ingest.

“Okay,” Dean started, still eyeing the food with actual lust. “You get to taste them first because you're a virgin in the matter, but _hurry_.”

“What should I eat first?”

Dean considered every possibility and settled quickly: “That one,” he said pointing at the pecan pie. “Then the cherry, and you can finish with the apple.”

Castiel didn't need to be told twice. He picked up his fork and let it bite into the dessert, releasing warmth that danced its way up into the air as Cas brought the pie to his mouth. His lips closed around the fork and he slowly pulled it out, letting the food rest on his tongue.

Dean watched with wide, focused eyes as he chewed, careful not to burn himself nor swallow any untasted bit.

“Okay now cherry,” Dean urged him on as soon as Cas had gulped down his first bite.

“Shouldn't I give you a report?” Castiel asked as quickly as possible under Dean's urgent stare.

“No time, the apple is gonna get cold and that's gonna ruin everything.” Dean's fingers were still drumming the rhythm to what he now reckoned was _All Shook Up_ as Castiel picked up a piece of cherry pie and raised it to his lips once again. However, he had started making up more complicated beats to follow the song and let his impatience show simultaneously.

As he swallowed the food that was still way too warm, Castiel's eyes focused on the fingers repeatedly hitting the table. That is, until Dean noticed the gaze and quit drumming altogether.

“Okay,” Dean cleared his throat.

Castiel wasn't sure he'd noticed, but Dean was now compensating with his foot, beating the rhythm of the song against the floor.

“Now for the apple, you gotta try the vanilla ice cream. I think it's a European idea, actually. Except they... flip the pie around, or something.” Weird people. Ingenious, but weird.

“Yeah,” Castiel confirmed, a somewhat superior grin forming on his face. “It's a French recipe, and they call it _Tarte Tatin_ ,” he explained with a flawless accent, pompous 'r' and all. “It was a mistake actually. Two sisters were baking an apple pie and it fell upside down, but they still ate it and thus discovered what is now an extremely popular dessert in francophone countries.” He saw the slightly wide eyes and suspicious eyebrow Dean was watching him with, and began to feel a little ridiculous. “I mean that's how the legend has it,” he mumbled with a dismissive shrug, looking down at his fork again to bring apple pie and vanilla ice cream up to his mouth in silence, Elvis's voice now fading in the background.

“How do you know so much about France?”

Cas's eyes shot up, his jaw pausing the chewing process for a fraction of a second. “Sorry?”

While he'd been avoiding Dean's eyes, the blond man had been biting the inside of his cheek in what seemed to be remorse.

“You know a lot about France,” Dean rephrased. “I mean it sounds like it. With 'Edeet Peeaf' and your 'croc musseeuh' and all. Are you a Paris kinda guy?” He didn't really wait for Castiel to even think about his response to steal the plate with the apple pie from him and start eating.

“I suppose I have made myself a rather pleasant idea of the country. And French is the tongue I know best, after English of course.”

Cas stopped speaking when a relatively loud moan errupted from Dean, who'd closed his eyes and was slowly shaking his head.

“Are you alright?”

Dean nodded emphatically, and after a few seconds, opened his eyes. “ _This_ ,” he said, pointing at the pie with his fork. “This is amazing. God.” Menacing green eyes met all the startled stares that were now pointing at their table. Dean cleared his throat and pushed the apple pie back to the middle of the table. “So,” he spoke loudly enough for their spectators to hear that the moment of awkwardness was definitively over. “France?”

Castiel blinked several times, watching Dean not unlike all those people around them. “Um, yes, France. I mean, Paris is the number one touristic destination in the whole world, and even though the people are well-known for their lack of hospitality, I believe it must be an interesting city to visit,” he ranted passionately. “There are a lot of museums there, and the _Comédie Française_ , which is one of the only theatres in the world to have a constant troup of comedians, as well as an opera...”

“Jeez,” Dean interrupted, poking at the cherry pie in search of the right angle to attack it. “I get why you're so excited about it. Are there any bookshops too?” he inquired, still focused on his pie with a half-suppressed smirk.

“Actually,” Cas continued his rant, animatedly oblivious to the sarcasm. “The city is famous for all the small bookshops it hosts around the Seine River. Of course there are many bookshops and libraries in Paris, but...”

Dean finally looked up at him with his wide green eyes sparkling with amusement, and a grin that was now invading his face in spite of all the efforts he put into containing it.

“You're laughing at me, aren't you?”

“Well,” Dean grinned with cherry in his mouth, red faintly tainting his lips. “I mean you're kind of an easy target. Can't really blame this one on me.”

Cas huffed and ate another piece of pecan pie. “So what part of the world do _you_ dream about?”

Dean frowned as he pondered over that. He didn't really fantasize about living anywhere in particular. Places he liked where Sam's apartment, Lake Michigan, and Bobby's garage. It wasn't like he'd ever thought about leaving the States, let alone visiting Europe. There was a whole ocean separating the continents, which meant flying, which meant no _camembert_ for Dean. Frankly, he'd have rather swum there; just thinking about planes had a tickling chill running up his sides all the way to his neck.

“I'm not much of a traveler,” he confessed, realizing he'd been holding apple pie a few inches away from his mouth while riding the chills. “Got my Baby, that's all there is to it.”

Cas eyed him suspiciously. “You live in your car?”

“Pretty much. I drive around a lot.”

“I thought you said you weren't much of a traveller.”

“I'm not. I don't _travel_ as in 'visit cities in hiking shorts with a map and a back-pack'. I don't _do_ shorts. And I never left the States.”

Dean finished the apple pie with a satisfied grunt, not too keen on keeping this conversation going. He'd never really needed a story to tell people about where he spent his time. Sam knew, Charlie understood talking about it was pointless, and Bobby didn't ask. Of course, Dean occasionally made up a life as a secret agent or an aspiring actor, but that was reserved to waitresses and women who didn't truly care and whom he would never see again. Castiel didn't exactly fit this description, did he.

“What about you,” Dean redirected the conversation before Cas could fathom him any deeper. “I mean I get that you and your twin wanted to give each-other some space, but wasn't a city enough? Illinois to California is a _lot_ of space.”

Castiel sat up straight and started toying with the end of his denim sleeves, watching the movements closely. “I was the one who moved. We'd always lived in Pontiac.” He observed people as they walked pass their table: the waitress in red whose eyes lingered on Dean, the couple next to them who were sharing ice cream, kids begging their parents for dessert. Anything but the man currently listening to him. “I imagine you could say the day he announced he was about to propose to Amelia was when we both knew I had to leave. Had our places be reversed, I suppose he would have left too. We had spent our whole lives in the same room, seeing the same people... It was for the best that I should leave; I think if I had stayed, I would have assumed the role of the annoying relative who promises he won't be using the couch for much longer,” he laughed softly.

Dean's brow lifted as he took in the words. “Aouch. Did Sammy put you up to this or something?”

Cas crooked his head and squinted as he thought about what he'd said. “Oh,” he burst out as realization hit him. “Please,” he broke into a smile. “Whenever you visit, it is like an improvised Christmas for your brother. He waves at me in the morning, jogs up and down the stairs, and there is always that smell of pastries emanating from your apartment. Every second he spends with you is clearly a gift.”

It was odd to hear Cas speak of Sam as of an old friend. First, Sammy had never given Dean the impression of knowing Castiel any better than by name; second, realizing there were some things he didn't know about his own brother that Cas of all people was aware of had let a cold wind spiral up Dean's spine. The guy hadn't even known Dean existed until last month and yet he was – _wait_.

“What do you mean 'whenever I visit'?”

Cas barely refrained from frowning at the question, and blinked twice. “Sorry?”

Now leaning in, Dean crossed both arms on the table and squinted, trying to make sense of everything Castiel had told him before questioning it. “You know I've visited before,” he accused or asked, Cas wasn't sure, and chances were Dean wasn't either.

Deeming the question/accusation/whatsoever safe, Castiel replied slowly, watching Dean's reaction to each movement of his mouth. “Yes, you visit every year.”

“And yet,” Dean countered, so pleased with himself Cas wondered which trap he'd just fallen into. “On the day we met, you said you didn't know who I – or who my brother was.”

Blue eyes widened, and even under the dim lightning of the restaurant, Dean could discern the faint blush creeping up on Cas's cheeks. “I didn't,” the man stuttered, “I never – ”

“Dude, my memory's like the most functional part of my brain, you can't contradict it. You said,” Dean proclaimed, sitting up and bringing his crossed arms to his chest while his smug smile expanded to his whole face. “And I'm quoting your lying ass here, _'is he the pianist or the really tall one'_. You acted like you didn't know.”

Cas's face shut down in apprehension. Both his hands were on his knees and everything about his posture made it abundantly clear that he was trying to keep any and every emotion that might have run through his vains for even a second safely trapped inside. “So?”

So, Dean didn't know. He hadn't suspected there might have been a story behind that. He just had a good memory, and present Cas had contradicted past Cas, so Dean's brain had set off a small alarm and his mouth had opened before he'd had the chance to think it over. Had Castiel brushed it off, that would have been it. Had he said 'that was more than a month ago how do you expect me to remember what I said', Dean would have picked up a piece of cherry pie and found a new topic of conversation.

But no, Cas had blushed and mumbled something and now he was turning into a statue. The question was _why_. There was nothing particularly embarrassing about the story–if you could even give it that important a name; no obvious cause for Castiel's sudden change in behavior; no apparent reason why he'd acted like he had no idea who the sleeping stranger on his couch was.

Well, there was only one explanation, really: Cas hadn't wanted Dean to know he knew him. Once again, why? Castiel could have introduced himself with something along the lines of “hey, I guess you were looking for the apartment next door, I'm Castiel, now get off my couch”, but he hadn't.

The suddenly overwhelming seriousness was starting to give Dean a headache. He was way too tired to play deductions, especially when the paranoid part of his mind kept deviously whispering Crowley's name to him. Cas had been spied on for God's sakes, what was Dean thinking?

Still, he couldn't quite mute that little voice that kept speaking louder and louder, already snickering at him because he'd been such a fool. Someone friendly. Was that really all it took? Was he really that fucking easy to play? Years of dodging knifes and bullets, walking dark streets and tight ropes, escaping cages and handcuffs, and Dean Winchester fell for blue eyes and a smile.

“What's going on here?” he asked coldly, his chest freezing and boiling as Cas stared at him like he was preparing to be murdered on that very chair.

  


About a month earlier

Castiel's apartment was warmer this morning. He'd pushed his duvet completely off his body in his sleep, whereas he usually kept both his feet hidden under it from November to May. The thing with California was that summer was never really gone. It hid behind clouds and in post-cards for a few months, just long enough to be missed by its humans, and then it came back out without warning to surprise everyone with a burning morning. Castiel sort of hated California.

He needed to get out of bed. He was supposed to buy new canvases today, and the only shop that sold ones large enough for the painting he had in mind was four hours away and closed at five pm. And he didn't own a car.

Ideally, he'd have to buy coffee too. There was maybe enough left to live through a week, two if he rationed himself, which, let's face it, wasn't happening. As he waited for his liquid energy to fill an entire cup, Castiel let his eyes wander over the mess his apartment had become. He had picked up and filed all those loose sheets three weeks earlier, and already his floor was covered in paper again.

A brief glance outside his window explained the mysterious heat. Summer wasn't back – said window was shut. No wonder the place was boiling up.

Castiel sighed and pushed himself off his kitchen counter to go let fresh air in. Why had he closed that window in the first place? It usually stayed open from April to October. Maybe his Mars habits had kicked in.

He took in a large breath that made blood in his nostrils sting with the cold and his lungs feel like they were expanding out of his chest. The chill made him smile. From his childhood home all the way to college, he'd spent his time in overheated rooms where the air felt heavy and crowded. Castiel sort of loved the cold.

Hearing his coffee maker beep, he exhaled in total bliss and regretfully turned his back to the window. That was when his good, casual morning turned into a bewildering tale. There was someone on his couch. A man. A sleeping man. A sleeping man who for the life of Castiel _really_ resembled – oh. Indeed.

Dean Winchester was asleep on his couch.

Castiel couldn't quite say how long he stood there, the hairs on his exposed limbs standing up, which he totally blamed on the open window blowing cold air on his back. All he knew was that when he finally walked in silent steps to his cup of coffee, it was only lukewarm.

Dean Winchester was asleep on his couch.

Castiel had never let anyone but Jimmy, Claire, and Amelia inside his home. There was a reason he didn't really mind leaving his work laying around like this, and that was because no one was ever supposed to see it. But that was over.

Because Dean Winchester was asleep on his couch.

Swallowing his coffee in three large gulps, Castiel decided that he needed a plan of action. First of all, he hadn't heard any celebration from the apartment behind the wall in his living room, so Sam hadn't seen his brother yet, which meant Dean had just arrived. The man had obviously climbed up to the second-story balcony–although _how_ Castiel had no idea–searching for Sam's window, and had clambered through the wrong one. Castiel had gone to bed around midnight–at which time Dean Winchester had definitely not been asleep on his couch–and fallen unconscious quickly after that, so the man must have broken into his home after one am.

None of this really mattered, but listing simple facts he was certain about gave him a sense of control over the situation, which he obviously lacked. It was nine am, and Castiel had no idea what to do. So, he decided to do what he would have done on any other day, and got dressed.

After ten minutes of what he could only describe as fidgeting, Castiel abandoned all resistance and walked to his couch.

Dean Winchester was still there. Flesh and bone. Nothing of a mirage. And he was beautiful.

Castiel had seen him before, of course. A man like Dean Winchester didn't go unnoticed. First, Castiel had heard a high-pitched scream coming from next door, several years ago. For a minute, he'd suspected someone had died, quite possibly the red-haired woman that lived there, but then the same voice had started babbling excitedly, a deep baritone exploiting the few occasions it found to encourage the woman to calm down. Then his second neighboor–who at that time Castiel had only known as 'the really tall man'–had come home and an infinity of good smells had floated around their apartement for a whole week. The first time Castiel had actually _seen_ Dean Winchester was on the parking lot. He was coming out of his car, purple plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark blond hair the color of his skin under the sun. He was glorious.

Above everything else, Castiel could remember the urge to draw him. To put him on paper and lock him up in his portfolio forever. He had seen fascinating bodies and faces before, features that begged him to lay them on a canvas, but Dean Winchester made them all instantly blurry in Castiel's mind. He wasn't only handsome, although Castiel could have concentrated on that and only that for a few months. His walking pace, the way the sun reflected on his leather jacket, how he leaned against his car, and the dominant height to which he rose to look down at the brown-haired woman Castiel had seen before – none of that could be captured on paper and yet he wanted to do nothing but try.

The first time he had seen Dean from up close, the man was obviously beyond drunk. Castiel had heard irregular footsteps tumbling up the stairs he had been heading towards, as well as two pairs of voices laughing. The lightning in this building had always been terrible, but there had been no mistaking the woman's fluorescent red hair or the inhumanly tall man. The girl he now knew was Meg was nestled under Sam Winchester's arm, somehow supporting his weight by leaning against him heavily. Dean Winchester had an arm around the other woman's shoulders, strolling through the hall like a king, canting his chin like an emperor, and grinning like the happiest man on Earth. How did you translate that into lines?

Castiel had walked by the small group, following the shadows that kept his insistant staring out of sight. Dean's hand was lightly resting on the woman's shoulder, a strand of orange hair trapped under his thumb, the rest of his fingers softly grazing the denim of her jacket. The lines on his neck darkened and lightened, following the movements of his adam apple as he laughed. The yellow light of the lamp post outside the corridor drew ephemeral shapes on his face as he moved forward, carefully revealing his features, one by one, never allowing Castiel a complete view.

And then Dean Winchester had disappeared. At first it had been one day, then two, and soon it had been ten days, a month, and Castiel had assumed the man would never be back. He spent most of his time regretting not asking Dean Winchester to pose. He wouldn't have risked anything. He could have lied, told Dean he was an art student working on strong jaw-lines or green eyes. Anything.

But a year later, almost down to the day, Dean Winchester had come back. Some of his lines had changed, and although it offered thousands of new possibilities on a sheet of paper, Castiel couldn't help mourning all the ones the last twelve months had taken away. He had always wondered what Basil Hallward must have felt the first time he had met Dorian Gray, and now Castiel couldn't help but think he knew.

One way or another, he would find a way to draw that man, even if that meant tying him to a chair.

And now, Dean Winchester was asleep on his couch.

Castiel could have picked up a pencil and started drawing while the man was asleep, and honestly, he wasn't certain he'd resist the temptation, right until Dean Winchester opened his eyes.

Castiel's mind seldom cursed, but this time he'd have to forgive the exception.

Dean Winchester was no longer asleep on his couch.

Castiel watched the man sigh and sit up, still oblivious: rubbing his drowsy face with both palms, covering his cheeks and lips and eyes and forehead all at once, his hair a bunch of tangled spikes that would take hours to depict with a pencil, his speckled arms curvaceous with muscle, the skin smooth and firm, veins slighlty apparent in the pit of his elbow, a blue touch to the picture. Other than that, Dean Winchester was mostly golden and beige and brown, pink in the lips and green in the eyes. His face coupled the delicate curves of his mouth and cheekbones and the straight lines of his nose and jaw. A study in harmonious contrasts.

Castiel's assessment was suddenly interrupted.

“Who the _hell_ are you?”

Dean Winchester was addressing him.

Castiel felt the naive part of his brain gulp down the confirmation that Dean Winchester had no idea who he was. Maybe one day he would find a way to have the bundle of neurons surgically removed. But there was no time for that now. He had to decide how he was going to respond, and he had to decide quickly.

One: Dean Winchester could never know about the somewhat embarrassing obsession Castiel had come to develop with him. In fact, it would be for the best if Dean Winchester was to believe he was as much of a stranger to Castiel as Castiel was to him.

Two: Castiel had to adopt a natural behavior. What was a natural behavior in this situation? Surprise and mefiance upon discovering a stranger inside his home. Amusement upon seeing the stranger lost. Confidence in this ephemeral position of power. Castiel rapidly went through all the characters he knew that gathered all these emotions, reminded himself of their attitude, and put on his invisible skin.

“I feel like I'm the one who should be asking that.”

  


________________________________________

  


  


Dean could feel his fingers clench around empty space and the absence of his gun safely tucked against the back of his right hip. Cas had barely said a word and already the paranoid instinct was taking over. 'Old habits die hard.' He needed to get a grip. On the other side of the table, Cas was getting worked up, overthinking their situation almost as obdurately as Dean had not that long ago. Clearly not a trained assassin. Dean forced the tension out of his knuckles, one by one; he had chosen to trust Cas, and he wasn't allowing himself any second thoughts just because the guy got flustered mentioning their first meeting.

“Hey,” Dean murmured, even lower than he'd meant.

Cas's eyes were still frantic, firmly fixated on Dean's face, and yet so obviously showing their burning desire to dart anywhere else. The man was absolutely terrified.

“Cas.”

Castiel closed his eyes and sighed, only to open them again a few seconds later with some newfound calmness. “I just didn't recognize you right ahead,” he said with a blank face. “By the time I finally did, you had already introduced yourself and I saw no point in confessing I had just remembered your face.”

Cas was a terrible liar and there was no arguing that, however willing to reconsider Dean's mind might have been. In just a few seconds, he had spotted seven tells on the blue-eyed man's face, and another three on his posture: the long blink, the hasty touch of his tongue over his lower lip followed by a barely perceptible frown, the cold and prolongued eye-contact, the controlled set of his jaw, the slight raise of his eyebrows and the final gulp at the end of his last sentence. As to his posture, Castiel had lay both palms on his thighs, unconsciously relaxed his shoulders and held himself a little straighter on his seat. Once again, _not a trained assassin_. A liar, but not a danger, so Dean let the lie slide – he'd find out another day.

On the other hand, Dean was somewhat of an expert in lying. It took him no effort at all to maintain a straight face while purposefully easing the tension that had settled between them by leaning in slightly, slicing another piece of pie as he acted like he'd been fooled. “Not sure what got you worrying over this,” he scoffed.

The attempt to lighten up the mood seemed to work as Cas mirrored Dean's elbows on their table and picked up his fork to toy with the food, appetite apparently still affected. “I was not worrying.” _Wetting his lips, raise of eyebrows._ “I am just really tired, and practically anything that requires thinking will knock me out.” _Gulp_. _Terrible, terrible liar_.

“Yeah,” Dean nodded, keeping both eyes on Cas's face. “You gotta be pretty freakin' exhausted if you're gonna leave that cherry pie uneaten.”

Cas huffed and put down his fork, crossing his arms on the table and resting his chin where his forearms intersected. “I'm not exactly leaving it uneaten, though, am I,” he didn't exactly ask from under his eyelashes as Dean swallowed. “I'm leaving it to you; I think there is a distinct nuance.”

“You're just gonna watch me eat?”

The smile on Castiel's face took its time to flourish before the man answered. “I could watch you do virtually anything and be happy with it.”

 _Lips dry, eyes wide open_. Dean kept looking out for a gulp that never came.

  


________________________________________

  


  


As soon as all the food on their table had made its way–well, more like _had had no choice but to follow Dean's fork and throat_ –down Dean's stomach, their waitress ushered them out, the diner reaching its peak of affluence around eleven pm. By that time, a vigorous argument that opposed cinema and literature had begun between the two men, which did sound a trifle childish since Dean hadn't read more than five books in his life, nor Cas made it past Hitchcock and Chaplin. Of course, that didn't stop either of them idiots from finding new points to defend during the whole ride home, with the obvious 'books allow you to make up your own settings and characters' and 'movies have awesome soundtracks', all the way to 'you don't need light to watch tv, books are no use in the dark' and 'really Dean if you want to talk about practicality books are portable and don't require electricity'.

After plunging to such ridiculous depths, they found themselves short of ideas as they reached their floor, Dean still grinning at the both of them and Cas's eyes and smile definitely worn out.

“So what now?” Castiel asked when they reached his door and stopped of a silent common accord. Letting his back fall against his door, Cas fished for his keys in his jacket pocket and let them hang from his forefinger, both arms hidden behind his back to force it into a curve.

Dean eyed the pose and raised an unimpressed eyebrow, at which Cas huffed and grinned, quickly followed by Dean's chuckle. The... _flirtiness_ had long stopped bothering him. Sure, he still felt uncomfortable every now and then, when Cas's eyes became too insistant or his words too ambiguous, but if Dean could take ironic flirtation from Meg and Jo, then he could do the same with Cas. After all, it wasn't like he would ever take any of these relationships anywhere further, so why bother discriminating the guy because he was a dude? Stupid.

“What what now?” Dean hadn't moved from the exact spot where he'd stopped, about two feet away from Cas, both hands in his pockets. The proximity wasn't a problem as the corridor was mostly one big shadow, only lit by the lamp posts of the street circling the building that sent their yellow light right through the windows covering the walls.

“Am I expected to host you and your lady friend again tonight?”

 _Smooth motherfucker_. “Uh uh,” Dean shook his head with a full-blown smirk. “I'm sending Meg home, driving her there if I have to, you go rest.”

“It's no trouble,” Cas vehemently began, only to end up interrupting himself with a yawn and trying to start over.

“Cas. Go rest. Now.”

“Fair enough.”

Dean stood still as Cas opened his door and slid his tired body inside.

He stood still when Cas unexpectedly turned around again as if suddenly remembering something and stared at Dean, or more likely the human-shaped shadow of Dean in the faint yellow light.

He stood still and frowned as Cas muttered something under his breath, eyes still somehow finding Dean's face in the darkness. “I just wonder...”

He stood still as Cas took a step towards him with unforeseen assurance and slid a hand around his neck.

He stood still and blanked out as Cas rose to his tiptoes and nearly closed the gap between their faces, letting out a short breath, a last hesitation, before reaffirming his grip around the nape of Dean's neck and blindly kissing him where he'd probably calculated Dean's lips would be. In fact it was slightly to the right and Dean felt a brush on the corner of his mouth.

He stood still as Cas lingered there for a second, his fingers soft and his lips chapped against Dean's skin.

He stood still as Cas pulled away, searching Dean's face, which was a bit ambitious in the complete dark, and disappeared behind his door, shutting it with a loud bang and leaving Dean alone in stark silence.

He stood still.

Maybe not so ironic after all.

 

 

________________________________________

 

 

Everyone has little tricks they use whenever they need to reboot their brains. Whether they're needed because you're drunk, high, beyond exhaustion, or having a panic attack, it is always a good thing to have strict protocols your task control panel can fall back on.

Dean has lots of protocols. Their range includes counting down from ten while breathing deeply to a list of twenty-three steps to serenity, which involves counting time and drumming the beats of his favorite song simultaneously. Dean has had his fair share of panic attacks, growing less frequent thanks to his multiple cpoing programs, and of course experience, so it is pretty safe to say that Dean Winchester is always ready for a surprise panic attack.

Dean isn't having a panic attack though. The main symptoms of a panic attack are hyperventilation, dizzying eye-sight, speeding pulse, and an irrepressible urge to laugh and cry at the same time. Dean isn't suffering from of them. Both his heart rate and his breathing are perfectly under control, he can see absolutely fine other than the pitch-black night, and he is quite content remaining silent for now. He's just having trouble processing things. If anything, Dean almost wishes he _were_ having a panic attack; at least then he'd know what to do; but right now, the only thing he feels like doing is going home and sleeping for ten hours straight. _Sleeping off your issues_. _Nice_.

Maybe he's just too tired. Maybe he'll wake up in the morning and remind himself what happened and immediately grab a bag to breathe into. _God_ , he really wishes he could be panicking right now. Not knowing how to respond to something is so much worse than losing your shit.

Well, one thing's for certain: he can't stand in the middle of that corridor for the rest of time. Dean shoots the hallway a surveying glance, making sure no one saw them. And the chances of that happening are rather small; he and Cas were alone in the hall and even _he_ can't see a damn thing anyway.

Making his way to Sam's door Dean flirts with the idea that in the middle of everything currently happening to him – between Bela, Crowley, Abaddon, the ghost of Alistair still finding a way to mess up his life, striving to take care of Sammy and Charlie and somehow Meg and Jo as well, someone kissing him was such an insignifant problem he could afford to laugh about it as he pushed it down his hierarchy of priorities. Even if that someone is attached to a dick. _Especially_ since Dean knows that someone is neither a nutjob nor a criminal, which is nice, for a change.

 _God_ if only he could be panicking.

  
  


________________________________________

  
  


  
  


Dean knocked on Sam's door just in time to stop the bunch of twelve year olds from starting the second volume of their movie. What he needed was silence and an empty room, and he wasn't waiting two more hours to sprawl out on his temporary bed. He considered calling Anna to see if he could crash at her place, but it hardly seemed appropriate.

Meg naturally put up a bit of a fight when Dean told her to get her ass out of the building, but she ended up reluctantly following Jo to her car, glaring at Dean rather interrogatively right down to the second she disappeared behind a wall.

Dean swore that woman could just see right through his skin.

Sam gathered the dishes that hadn't been there when Dean had left and carried them to the kitchen as Charlie, who was laying on the sofa, bent her legs at the knees to let Dean sit and then resting her calves on his thighs.

“You had a good time?” she asked with genuine interest, angling her head against the armrest so she could watch him as she distractedly bit her nails.

Dean smiled at her inquisitive pseudo-sibling stare. “I had pie.” That was enough of an answer to anyone who knew him. “Pecan, cherry, _and_ apple.”

She smiled deeper and crossed her legs, letting Dean absently massage her calf. “How's Cas doing?”

“He just needed sugar,” Dean said, focusing on what his hands were doing to avoid her gaze. “He was tired – he's probably sleeping like a baby by now.”

Sleeves rolled up and bags under his eyes, Sam collapsed into the armchair at Dean's left. “So?” he began, smug smile pulling at his lips. “Did you turn him into a fellow pieovor?”

Dean huffed and shook his head slowly. “Dude, he had four bites and surrendered.”

Charlie rearranged her legs, offering Dean her other calf.

“Isn't that too much of a deal breaker for you?” his brother questioned, gaze briefly skimming over Charlie like there was some inside joke playing out between them.

“Are you kidding me? He let me have all the pie; I'm never hanging out with anyone else again.”

They laughed and kept on talking for a bit until Sam got up from his seat to announce he was off to bed, after which Dean and Charlie stayed mute on the couch. Dean continued pushing his thumbs into Charlie's flesh, wearily looking off into the distance. He almost didn't notice when she pulled her legs back to herself and got to her feet.

Dean glanced up at her with a sleepy smile, which she responded with an amused chuckle, followed by a very serious look.

Kneeling before him, Charlie set her elbows on top of his knees and crossed her arms, resting her chin on her forearms when they lay horizontally.

“Dean?” Her face bounced on her arms as she opened her mouth.

“Hmm?”

She waited for his eyes to focus on her. “You know I love you right?”

Dean closed his eyes and sighed through his nose. “I know, Granger. Now go hack the NSA's twitter account or whatever it is you kids do to have fun these days.”

She beamed at him and saluted with two fingers against her forehead. “You got it Sirius.”

  
  


Silence was better. Silence made the world shrink around Dean, until all that was left was his numb body and the cushions it was pressing into. Darkness helped too.

He wasn't about to enter an existential crisis just because Cas had kissed him. After all, he couldn't really claim he hadn't seen it coming. Eversince the day they had met, Cas had been but throwing bright orange warning signs at his face, which for whatever twisted psychological reason Dean had consciously decided to walk past. If anything, that kiss was his fault.

The thing was, analyzing every single event that had led to that mere brush of lips would be an utter waste of time. Basically, Cas was into him, Dean had stood close enough for him to grab his neck, and that was pretty much all there was to it. What he needed to do was figure out how he was going to handle being around Cas. Did he need to sit the guy down and talk to him about it? That would most likely be the most uncomfortable moment of his life, but the only alternative was a long series of embarrassing encounters, so in the end one awkward conversation might prove to be more of a solution.

Still, what was he supposed to say to the guy? It wasn't like he hadn't already told him he was straight, heterosexual, and not gay, all of that in the same minute. What more was there to say?

Dean fell asleep thinking of all the possibilities, imagining himself muttering an endless string of 'um's and 'er's and 'so's, or taking one of Castiel's hands in his, or blurting out a needless apology.

He was kinda screwed.


	20. Take a woman's word.

Panic came alright in the morning.

Now that Dean's brain was working on full power again, he could see the complete mess his life had become in the past two days. It felt like millions of tiny little voices trapped inside his skull, all screaming for attention, and he was going deaf.

First, _Crowley_. Had that meeting really happened? Everything about it felt so surreal in the crude light of a rested morning. Dean had actually had a conversation with the man and gotten out of the room alive, with all four of his limbs still working. What the Hell. And Dean wasn't even including freaking _Abaddon_ in all the things he had to worry about: the list was long enough without a psychopathic killer organizing a man hunt after him, thank you very much.

 _Jesus_ , the fact that he could even think that without laughing like a maniac at how insane he had become was just one sign of how bad things were looking.

Was it a good idea to contract an alliance with the guy? Did Dean even have a choice? Could he find a way to disappear again while making sure Sam and Charlie and everyone else would be safe? _Could_ he just disappear again? Driving around, no home, no family, no nothing... was he even capable of living that life anymore?

And even if he _did_ disappear, what would he do the day one of those bitches finally located him? Crowley, or Abaddon, or _God knows who_ was even leading this freaking organization anymore, these people had resources, allies, spies, moles, trained killers, professional trackers. Dean was good, sure, but what was one man against a dubious army of freaking assassins hidden behind every door? There was nowhere to run.

He'd fucked up. He'd fucked up so bad. He should have stayed hidden in plain sight: fixing cars and sinks, different bed every night, a new garage every week, changing state every month. It hadn't been ideal, but at least he'd been the only one at risk. Now Dean had dragged Sam and Charlie and Jo and Meg and...

Oh God, Cas. 'cause things obviously weren't complicated enough already. Oh fuck. What was he gonna do about Cas? He didn't have _time_ for this. Dean brought two fingers to his face and softly stroked his lower lip from left to right until they rested on the corner of his mouth. His sensorial memory kicked in and Dean could feel it again: the cold all around them, his balance slightly affected by the surrounding darkness and the palm against the nape of his neck, his whole body stilling like it had frozen on the spot.

The memory stopped playing as he roughly pulled his own hand off his face. He was so fucked. He had to figure out what he was gonna do. _Hide_ , his mind whispered. For God's sakes, the guy lived ten feet away.

Why would _Dean_ have to deal with this anyway? Cas had started it. He'd freaking _kissed_ him. With his _lips_. On _Dean's_ lips. Oh God. He'd just stood there and –

“Dean.”

“What,” his mouth replied automatically.

Sammy was standing a few feet away, one hand on his hip, and the other holding a phone. His lifted brow seemed to suggest he was expecting some explanation; quite possibly because he'd had to call Dean's name several times to finally get some sort of answer.

“Meg's ride fell down some stairs yesterday evening,” Sam said, watching his brother closely.

“You mean she pushed them and now she wants help with the body?”

Sam frowned and tilted his head. “That's... actuallly what I said when she told me.” He chuckled and shushed the low grumble coming from the handset. “But no. She just wants to know if you can – ” The voice at the other end of the line interrupted again and Sam paused to listen. “Um, no, actually she is _commanding_ you to come pick her up at the tattoo shop tonight to drive her home.”

Dean stared at the phone unimpressedly. “Who's taking her this morning?”

Sammy repeated the question to the small device and both the Winchesters waited.

“She's hitch-hiking.”

“Well _that's_ dangerous.”

The phone mumbled.

“She says she'll be fine.”

Dean rolled his eyes and let his head fall back against the cushions. “I meant for whoever picks her up.”

“She says 'ha ha'.”

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and sighed. “What time does she want me there?”

“Eleven.”

“Fine.”

“Great. He'll be there. Sure. Yeah. See you. Bye.”

Whatever conversation Sammy attempted to keep going afterwards was drowned in the minor storm that shook the seas of Dean's mind.

Wow. He was doing poetry now. That was rock bottom and he wasn't done digging.

  


Dean spent the greater part of his day mulling things over. He decided not to leave the apartment until he felt ready to unexpectedly run into Cas; it seemed they had developed a habit of doing that.

He just needed to be alone and pace for a while, and that was impossible with the two twenty year old trading jokes and asking him questions all the time. So, Dean put on a tired face, and focused on anything he could until he had the apartment to himself.

The coffee waiting for him at the breakfast table was too hot and oddly insipid. The reason behind that, as Dean discovered when Charlie saw his wince at his first sip and felt the urge to explain, was that the woman of the house had deemed it a good idea to simply pour all of the brown liquid into a saucepan and have it heat up on the stove until it started boiling.

Why had everyone in his life suddenly decided to be an idiot.

After a bland coffee and cold waffles, Dean absently did the dishes while the other two put on their shoes and talked about a guy who had apparently thrown up right in the middle of the biggest auditorium on campus. What was college even about? At least Dean had escaped that.

As soon as the front door closed, he went back to the couch and lay down.

Untangling his thoughts took several hours. They were like snarls of blindingly colored threads that shifted as soon as he found an end to hold. Even after pulling at random bits of strings for what seemed like all of eternity, Dean still felt trapped inside his skull.

He'd fucked up, and it was too late to try and fix it. He would have to deal with it.

He had no idea how to deal with it.

But maybe he knew someone who did.

After opening the window–he was starting to get used to these freaking doors thinking they owned the place–Dean sneaked out of the apartment, making sure he was alone in the hallway before setting out a foot and rushing down the stairs. Once he reached the parking lot, all his eyes could think about was shooting a glance at the second floor of the building, second window to the left, and check for a dark-haired figure staring back at him. Cursing at the urge, Dean forced his attention to his car and kept Cas's window out of his sight.

  


Even though it had been almost empty the last time Dean had visited, the Roadhouse was a fairly popular bar in the middle of the day. Ellen made a mean steak and Jo had gained a reputation for her poker face. And of course, there was Ash, who lived behind a door Dean had never opened, with a sign that read 'Dr. Badass'. No one really knew who that guy was, or where he'd come from, but Ash and his mullet often spent their days nearly passed out on the pool table, or playing loud music in what was supposedly his bedroom.

No one took notice of Dean pushing the door open. A low choir of grumbles served as background noise to the bar, in addition to the blues song the juke box was playing. Dean strolled to the bar, watching Ellen's profile as she swiped away a trace left by a glass.

She didn't raise her eyes when she addressed him, already serving a pint to another man sat on a stool. “What can I get you?”

Dean quickly eyed the list of drinks written with chalk on a slate. “I'll give those purple nurples a shot.”

An empty glass in hand, Ellen snapped to face him.

Dean gulped down the cocky smile he'd entered the room with and almost felt his body shrink under her glare.

“For God's sakes,” the woman whispered as she strode towards him, firmly setting the glass on the counter. “What are _you_ still doing here?”

Maybe it had been a bad idea to come.

“Ellen, I was just – ”

“You get the hell out of my bar. I don't want any surprise visitors looking for your ass. I've lost enough people to you people and your sick game.”

Dean could understand that. He had met William Harvelle on the night of his seventeenth birthday. The man had introduced himself as Dean's father's partner, and had shared the Winchesters' motel room for several months.

Until he hadn't. One night, John came home to whatever crappy room they had rented, and William wasn't with him. When Dean asked where the man was, his father answered “he's not,” and that had been the end of William Anthony Harvelle. Dean had met Ellen and Jo at the funeral. As soon as the brown-haired woman had spotted their father, John had told his sons to stand by silently as he went to talk to her. Even through the church stone wall, Dean could hear the yells.

Still, when Dean had started looking for a way out for Sam, Ellen had helped. She'd employed him, asked Jo to introduce him to her friends, and found him an apartment to live in.

But for Dean, it wasn't the same. Dean had joined John in his desperate quest. Dean had affiliated with the people who'd gotten Ellen's husband killed.

Still, he'd thought when real trouble came, Ellen would be there for him, if only for advice.

Maybe he'd been wrong.

He nodded to himself with a smile that said he should have known.

As Dean took his second step towards the exit, Ellen spoke again. “Kid.”

Hesitantly, Dean stopped and turned around.

“Get your ass back in that chair already,” Ellen sighed.

Even more slowly, Dean obeyed.

Ellen set two large glasses and a bottle of scotch between them. “Spill it, I ain't got all day.”

“I made a mistake,” Dean murmured as Ellen poured the shots.

“You mean staying?” Ellen downed one glass.

Dean huffed out a humorless laugh and drank, wincing at the taste. “I mean showing up here at all.”

"Well," Ellen drawled, leaning on the counter, right forefinger circling the outlet of a second shot. "I'm not a big fan of saying 'I told you so'..."

"Yeah. I'm an idiot - I think that's established."

"Hey kid, you wanna know something?" Elle asked, putting her drink down and waiting for eye contact, which she got when Dean reluctantly looked up. "Everyone's an idiot. Some are just unlucky ones."

Dean watched her throw her head back and the drink down her throat. He wasn't unlucky. He'd had a father who no matter how hard it got had never failed to keep both his sons alive, and who'd done that after watching his wife burn along with his home. Dean had known his mother, while Sam had incidentally never had that chance. Dean had had multiple occasions to leave all the horror behind, grab the keys and drive away. He could have ust run for his life and never looked back. He had  _chosen_ not to. For Sammy.  had _chosen_ not to.

He shrugged dismissively and kept on drinking. 

"So what made you open your big wide eyes about it huh?"

Dean toyed with his last glass, the tips of his fingers already buzzing with the almost pure ethanol. What would happen if he told Ellen about Crowley and Abaddon? Would she offer some help? Or throw him out by his collar? Would she pull him into a motherly embrace? Or shoot him between the eyes right then and there?

“I got found,” Dean confessed. “Two, three days ago? A British chick got me driving all the way to Salt Lake City.”

“The Crossroads of the West,” Ellen mumbled to herself. “Crowley?”

Dean offered a weary smile and raised an empty drink. “The King himself.”

“What did he want?”

Dean shrugged again, mouthing several syllables before actually uttering one of them. “He's got a job for me. 'A last job', he said.”

“There ain't no last job and you know it.”

“I don't know Ellen.” Dean wet his lips as he searched for a phrasing that wouldn't make him sound so naive. “Crowley's not the type to break his deals.”

“You can't work with a maybe.”

“I'm not sure I got a choice.”

“Seems to me that thick head of yours's already made one.”

A yell stopped Ellen before she could even open her mouth.

With square shoulders and a sigh, the woman walked to two ladies who looked well on the way to a fight. After throwing both of them out of her bar, Ellen came back and spoke quickly. “Look, go along with this or don't, I couldn't care less. Only thing I can tell you is all Crowley's looking for are quick reflexes and a sharp blade. Lucky for him, you got but too many of each. Question _is_ , what are _you_ looking for?”

Dean's lips parted as he thought of something to answer, only to close again when Ellen rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“You're looking for freedom. That's all you stupid Winchesters ever looked for. What you gotta realize is that Crowley's not your way there. He might be your way to survival, or money, or whatever it is he promises the army of morons he has on a leesh, but he ain't your way to freedom. And that ain't gonna change.” Picking up the empty glasses, Ellen added: “You should mull that over on your way out.”

 

  
  


________________________________________

  
  


  
  


 

The thing about having too much to sort out was that it tended to steal your concentration away. This was a fact Dean could no longer deny after forgetting to turn right for the fifth time driving by Sam's street. He sighed and took the street on the left he'd already taken four times.

No matter how he turned, twisted, folded and unfolded the issue, Dean couldn't seem to find a hint of a way out. Had he known for sure a solution was waiting to be found, he would have tackled it with more dexterity – but the idea that he might be torturing his brain over a problem that couldn't be solved was a little discouraging.

As the man thought about how much he would give to be someone else just for a minute, his eyes wandered to his rearview mirror, in which he saw the reflection of the turn he had once again driven past. Slightly too tired to snap, Dean rolled his eyes at himself and pulled to a stop.

It was only five thirty. He had to pick up Meg at eleven. That was five empty hours and a half ahead of him. Exposing his gray matter to more of that neverending nightmare was about the worst thing he could do to himself – he couldn't keep driving. Plus gas wasn't free, and as much as Dean hated admitting it out loud, Baby was as heavy a drinker as he was. Heading back to the apartment still meant time to kill. Watching TV wouldn't distract him. If he started cooking, Sam would pick up on the hint and ask questions until either his tongue or Dean's eardrums gave out. So, no driving back home. And a bar was out of the question.

With another weary sigh, Dean started the car again.

  
  


The place where Meg worked didn't look like a tattoo shop. Dean couldn't have said exactly what it did look like, but a tattoo shop wasn't it. From the street, you could barely even see there was  _ something _ . The walls were made of red bricks covered in remnants of posters that once had promoted metal concerts and punk-rock events. The door was as high as a story and a half. It was old wood that probably had been a true work of art – at least before a bunch of teenagers armed with knives had decided to carve additions of their initials there. High above Dean's reach, at the exact middle of the panel of the door, hung a red sign that read 'Stay Out'. Basically, if Dean had had to bet on what was hiding behind the door to Meg's workplace,  _ abandoned meth lab _ and  _ creepy artshow _ would have come up before  _ tattoo shop _ . 

However, the  _ establishment– _ as Meg insisted on calling it–was one of the most eminent saloons in the state. People from all of California, and sometimes even further than that, drove miles only for help with a design. Customers waited for weeks,  _ months _ for an appointment.

Well, that was what Meg had told her friends.

The door creaked as Dean pushed it ajar. The man slid his body inside the room through the thin crack, and carefully shut the door again.

“Hello.”

Dean swiveled around. Twenty feet away from him, sitting behind a dark wooden desk and playing with what looked like a small silver blade, a young woman with short blond hair stared at him.

“Uhm, hi.” Dean started walking towards the desk, mouth still open and searching for words. But the woman spoke first.

“I'm gonna ask you to leave.”

Dean stopped dead in his tracks and gazed at his hands. It was strange how fascinating ten fingers could become when you had no idea what the hell was going on.

“Sorry?” he ended up asking.

The blonde sighed dramatically, eyes rolling and all. “My  _ job _ is to know who has an appointment when, and you don't have an appointment. So unless you're delivering an invisible pizza, I'm gonna ask you to leave.”

Staring back at her determined brown eyes, Dean stuttered: “I'm uh – I'm not...”

“I know you're not delivering an invisible pizza.”

“Oh.” Dean nodded to himself, the eyes of the receptionist still on his face. “I'm here to see Meg,” he declared after a rather long and uncomfortable silence.

The small grin that had started to form on the woman's face faltered and the blade stopped dancing in her hands. “ _ I'm _ Meg.”

“Meg Masters,” Dean precised.

“That's me,” Blondie replied flatly.

“Okay,” Dean uttered with a hesitant smile. Was she trying to be funny? “I can  _ see _ you're not her?”

Whatever her name was grinned and put the blade down to pick up a phone.

Dean waited, patient and intrigued, as 'Meg' punched in the numbers. As soon as it started ringing, she tucked the phone between her chin and shoulder, and retrieved her blade to clean her nails.

“Hey,” the woman greeted into the phone. Her somewhat predatory grin was still on, and her eyes focused on Dean. “I have someone asking for you... Male, blond hair, freckles... Looks dumb... Yeah that's him... Sure.” She hung up and addressed Dean a true receptionist's unconvincing smile. “Upstairs, third door on your left.”

Dumbstruck by – well, pretty much everything that had just happened, Dean gawked at whoever the hell that girl was for a solid ten seconds, after which he pointed to the only staircase visible to man in the room and quietly waited for confirmation.

One unimpressed eyebrow raised, the woman nodded her head twice, and followed his steps with her judgemental eyes until he was out of her sight.

When Dean opened the door Fake Meg had indicated, he found Actual Meg in a leather chair, sitting near a slab where a woman was lying on her stomach, half an electric guitar already discernible between her shoulder blades.

“Is it eleven already?” Meg asked the second Dean shut the door. She didn't look up from her work.

“No. It's uhm.. I don't know, maybe six? I don't know.”

The hum of the needle came to a halt. “What's going on?” The tattoo artist questioned, a hint of concern in her frown.

“What?” Dean mouthed as he glanced at the woman still lying still on the slab. Was she used to people interrupting her sessions to begin pointless conversations? “Nothing – nothing's _going on_ ,” Dean answered after shaking his head back to attention. “I was sitting on my hands so I decided to come by early.”

“Mm-hm,” Meg uttered, suspicious eyes still half-focused on him. “Well,” she said as the humming resumed. “You're still gonna sit on your hands, but you can at least put a chair between them and the floor, if you're interested. Grab one there.”

Dean gripped the back of a wooden chair obediently and pulled it to himself. “So, Meg Masters huh?” he dropped as he sat down.

“You mean the receptionist,” Meg spoke as if to her needle. “That's how she got the job.”

“Because you have the same name?”

Meg nodded. “We used to have that blond girl – Becky. You knew her, she was the gir...”

“The girl who sent Sam love letters every week? Yeah, you bet I remember _that_.” Becky was a sweet girl. A really sweet girl. Not exactly psychotic – maybe a little obsessive. About selfless tall men, preferably with long hair. So basically Sam Winchester.

Meg huffed and shook her head in remembrance of the countless love declarations Sam had received – through the mail, on his phone, at his house. Becky had no limits. “Yeah, that one. She was a _great_ assistant. I mean, she knew her stuff by heart, had the nerve to hang up on anyone... she was the best. But she talked a lot. So when I started picturing myself carving off her lips, I decided it was time she shoud leave.” She paused to let half her face smile at her work. “Then out of nowhere we got a call from a girl called Meg Masters, looking for a job, wondering if we might need an assistant some time. So I tell her to come by, and when she showed up she was playing with a knife so fast Gordon started fearing for her fingers,” Meg said with a huge grin directed a Dean, awaiting bafflement. “I wasn't gonna let that one slip away.”

“Of course,” Dean replied, a flip his hand dismissing the whole thing. “Why hire an actual assistant when you can get an armed psychopath right?”

“My point exactly.”

Meg and Dean kept chatting about Meg Number Two and all the embarrassing phone calls Sam had received from his 'admirer', until the loud clock in the hallway rang ten thirty and Meg put her needle down.

“Alright we're done.”

The woman on the slab sat up as if awaken back to life, put on her clothes without even sparing Dean a look, and left.

  
  


“So what's going on?” Meg inquired as Dean silently drove through the night.

“Hmm?” The Winchester boy barely even paid attention to the noise. He could still hear his passenger fidgeting in her seat with aggravation.

“You were _sitting on your hands_? Please,” Meg accused with the unspoken _don't you dare bullshit me_ contained in her tone. “The only times you're not either fixing a car or picking up a girl are when you're overthinking something. So what is it?”

This time, Dean took his eyes off the road to frown at his friend in confusion. The lack of a seat belt around her body wasn't surprising, but she rarely rested her back against the door as she was now doing. “I don't – ”

“Fine,” Meg interrupted with a shrug that said anything but _fine_. “I'll just throw out random guesses until you're grossed out enough to spill it then.” She sat back normally and crossed her arms over her chest. “You have an STD.” She looked at Dean searching for a reaction, but all she got was an unimpressed raise of brow. “You finally got a girl pregnant.” Still nothing. “You got a girl pregnant seven years ago and you've just met your kid and he's into math.”

“Now that's just rude.”

“You picked up a girl and couldn't get it up.”

Dean frowned. “Somehow ruder.”

“Tell me or I'll put my disgusting filthy shoes all over your precious back seat.”

Dean's head spun to glare at the threat. “I'll cut off your feet.”

“I'll snap your neck before you even take your hands off the wheel.”

_Probable_ , Dean thought as he glanced at her murderous grin. Sometimes he couldn't help imagining how great a serial killer that girl would have been. He pictured her all in black leather, a gun the size of his thigh in her hands, always chewing gum, and spitting it out on each of her corpses. Meg would have been some major ass-kicker. They would have been the number one team – travelling the whole country, dropping bodies like Tom Thumb's bread crumbs. That would have been pretty awesome. 

Dean sighed and got an merely amused smile ready. “Cas kissed me.”

They both kept silent just long enough for Dean's stomach to start turning. The radio was like someone who hadn't gotten the memo about a recent tragedy, talking over the moment.

Then Meg said: “He tastes like strange fruit doesn't he? Like watermelon or something?”

Dean looked at her. She had one eyebrow raised, holding her breath.

“You're joking right?”

“What?” Meg switched to a mildly defensive attitude. “He looks like the kind of guy who tastes like weird fruit.”

“Of course he does,” Dean mumbled under his breath.

The song on the radio came to an end and a woman started talking about the weather. Spoiler alert: California was gonna be hot.

“So,” Meg sighed, laying her feet on Dean's lap. “You win huh?”

“Yeah, I didn't really know I was playing.”

“ _Right_ ,” she scoffed. “It's so easy to forget you're blind. I mean your driving is really impressive for someone with your condition,” she praised with a big approving smile in the middle of her downright scathing face.

Even though the humor was evident, Dean could detect the edge in her tone. She was only joking–obviously–but there was still a flicker of hurt, somewhere beneath the mask of humdrum she wore like a veil. In any other circumstances, Dean would have boasted. It was his MO to turn the things he felt uneasy thinking about into topics he appeared comfortable discussing over and over. The more he could smile and laugh about it, the less questions he seemed to get.

“Look,” Meg said as he kept needlessly mulling things over. “This isn't gonna be pleasant for either of us, but even with that whole macho vibe you like having around you, you like this guy. Don't – don't interrupt just drive and feel uncomfortable in silence. What I'm trying to say is that you're probably gonna try to just bury that thing away and pretend it was just a weird dream and never talk to that guy again, and I'm cool with that if that's what you wanna do – I mean you'd be stupid to do that but then I wouldn't be so surprised. Anyway, what I mean is, you should give it a shot. He seems pretty into you and it's just that tough, heterostraight, womanizing asshole in you that's keeping you from seeing that's it's pretty mutual. I can promise you that in that whole big universe and all the stuff that happens every day, nobody cares if Dean Winchester likes to suck dick.” She waited a few seconds and took her feet off the mute driver's lap. “Now this has become too emotional for me so just drop me off at that horror movie gas station, I'm feeling like tempting fate.”

 


	21. Recruits 1995-2000

"What is this?"

Bela shut the heavy wooden door they had just walked through, making the overstacked bookshelves on the surrounding walls shiver as the pane hit the frame. "Data."

Dean took a few steps further into the room, his fingers brushing the table in the center, his eyes sweeping over the endless piles of books around it. "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked." Bela picked up a seemingly random book before parading straight to the man. "These are called books. They have loads of pages made out of paper in them, and, you see these little symbols?" she flipped the book open and pointed at the first paragraph on the page. "They're called letters. They form words when put together, and – "

"Yeah yeah alright, I got it." Dean caught a leather-bound book that looked about to fall. _Recruits 1950-1955_. He held it up to show Bela the title and raised his brow.

"Archives. Obviously." She crossed her arms, wearing an unimpressed smile. "Do you need me to explain the principle?"

"You've got every single person that works for Crowley listed in there?"

Bela shrugged. "Sure. What year were you recruited?"

" _Recruited_ ," Dean scoffed.

"What was that?" Bela questioned from the other side of the room, already examining the book spines.

"Nothing," Dean mumbled again. "I was uh – late 1999." He saw Bela crouch and pull a dusty book off the shelf. Dean hurried over as she opened it and started flicking the pages.

"There you are," she said as the nail of her forefinger underlined Dean's name on the top of one of the last pages. "Dean Winchester, December 22nd." She looked up with a grin. "Now _that_ is a merry Christmas."

"Yeah, I've had worse," said Dean absent-mindedly. As he read the first line. _January 24_ _th_ _, 1979. Son of John Winchester (5/1/1987)._

"You were 20?"

He hummed in acquiescence as he read on about his life. It wasn't all there, but there was still enough to send a chill down his spine. There were his exact height and weight–well, not this current ones, his bloodtype. There was Anna's name.

"How did it happen?"

"Family legacy."

There was William Harvelle's name.

"Who recruited you?"

 _Alastair._ There was his name. Just there, in the middle of the page. One word surrounded by a thousand others. No emphasis, no description. Not even a date of recruitment. Just eight letters among all the others. As if they weren't any more important than all the others. As if they were expendable. As if they weren't responsible for the mere existence of the page itself.

"Dean?"

Dean tore his eyes away from the page and rested them on her. "Let's get down to business." He snapped the book shut and sent it flying to the floor.

Bela shrugged with a forced air of disinterest on her face and walked over to a black shelf that was noticeably emptier than all the others. There, she crouched again and picked up a second book. "Abaddon," she read before dropping the dusty stack of different-colored pages bound by a dry leather cover on the table. It seemed like new pages had been added over the years, notes on events and rectifications, most likely.

"She got a whole book?" Dean asked – curious, but mostly offended.

Bela huffed and pulled up a chair. "You should see the shelf Crowley bought for all the volumes about himself." She sat down and opened the book, the cover falling heavily on the table. "Not sure you're worthy of the room where he keeps it though. Can you read?"

Dean raised one eyebrow.

The woman huffed again and looked down. "You'd be surprised how many of you I've met that couldn't even write their own name."

She stopped talking after that, and seemed to be reading closely.

Dean took a few steps around the room, observing the spines of all the books around him. The years on them went back to the nineteenth century, as far as he could tell. How long had Crowley's organization been around? How long had _Crowley_ been around? Was this all the archives they had or were there books from the beginning of dawn casually spending eternity in the cave of some Scottish castle? Where did it end?

"What year were _you_ recruited?" Dean asked after a while.

Bela looked up, squinting slightly.

"Come on," Dean sighed. "You got to read mine. Are we partners or what?"

The suspicious stare kept scrutinizing him. "Fine," Bela mused at last, letting the world unfold on her tongue with slightly too much control. "October 18th, 1998".

Dean frowned. "That's like... ten years ago."

"Yes," she confirmed with a patronizing smile. "My my, impressive cognitive capacities you have there. They told me about your looks but these shoulders are nothing compared to the sharpness of your mind."

Dean had bloked her haughty _'my country has a queen'_ crap mid-sentence. Instead he was now picking up the book he'd just thrown away. Bela couldn't possibly be over twenty five. How did a freaking _teenager_ get dragged into that shit?

_Recruits 1995-2000_

Bela's page was near the center of the book. The first thing one noticed when laying eyes upon it was the large picture that looked like a yearbook photo. The girl on the picture was about twelve, with a serious face and a hairclip holding an overgrown fringe to the side of her head, wearing a white shirt and a black sweater. The features of a girl on the depleted look of a battered soul.

"How old were you?" Dean asked, barely louder than a whisper.

"I had just turned fourteen in that picture," she answered from right behind Dean's shoulder, startling him a little. "I was recruited a few months later."

_Bela Talbot_

_Born May 22 nd, 1984_

_Recent orphan (14): mother died from blunt trauma to the head – father bled out from slit throat and numerous stab wounds to the chest, in what appears to be chronological order;_

_Apparent injuries: bruised arms, waist, and calves, broken collarbone, several cuts on inside of right thigh (self-inflicted);_

_Family relations: killed both parents, multiple sexual assaults from father, no other family;_

_Statement: recruit in state of shock, no statement, doesn't show resistance;_

And then, another handwriting:

_10/20/1998: Height: 5'4"_

_Weight: 109lbs_

And another:

_11/4/1998: recruit remains silent – training: driving (recruit shows pain from broken collarbone, healing), weaponry – planned for when collarbone healed: short-distance shooting, climbing, codes theory – emotionally unstable;_

"Surely you'll miss being the one with the daddy issues. " Bela grabbed the book away from him to close it with a loud puff and a cloud of dust.

It wasn't so easy to feel contempt for her now. The feeling was still here, but altered. Like a drop of blue paint in a red paint bucket. It still looked red, but it would never be quite the same as before, no matter how much red you poured back into it.

What did come easier now was fear. He was alone in a room with a woman who had walked through hell and smeared her way out with her own blood. He knew what that did to people. But he'd been an adult.

"So what, you grew up in there? They just picked you up with a knife in your hand and carried you away without asking anything?"

"Pretty close," she said, holding the book against her chest, both arms crossed over it. "They told me I would be facing murder charges with low chances of conviction considering my age and physical state. However they could spare me the trouble of a trial and PTSD therapy, if I wanted so. All I had to do was to pick a new name and forget everyone I'd ever known, and they'd teach me how to survive."

"And you said yes."

"Why wouldn't I? I'm what they–well, we–call _predictible_. I make decisions based on my own interests. I could either spend my life holding the hand of a psychiatrist, or I could learn to take care of myself. And I never broke a bone again. Amazing what a body can pull through when you look after it."

Bela went back to her chair without another look and resumed her reading.

Dean's mind felt a little numb. He knew he was supposed to feel something but it was just out of reach. "Well," he started. "To be fair you don't get into trouble driving people around."

Bela smiled without looking up. "One call from Crowley and I'll separate your body from your head."

Dean gazed at all the books lying at his feet. "Right. 'Cause that's just your basic partnership policy isn't it. Just... be ready to slit each-other's throat whenever, huh?"

"Find something to read."

"Right."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So um... I updated.  
> Yes it's been a year and three months. I just found myself with nothing to do last week and I found my Destiel Fanfiction folder and I read all of Start With a Name all over again and I needed more so I wrote more.  
> So yeah that's chapter 21, it's been sitting in my computer all this time, unfinished, so I finished it.  
> I'm not sure when the next chapter will be out but I'm sort of back into writing so I'm hoping I'll get it done soon enough?  
> Sorry about the gap there.  
> Also I changed my tumblr URL, I'm now hughdoyouthinkyouare.  
> Last but not least: I was trying to avoid reading all the comments I got this past year on this fic and all the others, but now I'm reading all of them and it's really nice to see all of you guys being supportive even though I kind of abandoned you in the middle of the desert, so thank you so much for being the coolest readers ever. Love you.  
> Hope you enjoyed it? xx


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